


parenthesis

by fanfictiongreenirises



Category: Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Don't copy to another site, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Institutions, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-07-07 17:55:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 67,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19856488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanfictiongreenirises/pseuds/fanfictiongreenirises
Summary: A simple mission leaves Steve Rogers dead. Tony would probably have dealt with it better had Steve's ghost not been haunting him.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank @captainofthewasabiclub for being the first person to read this and give me feedback (they're to be thanked for any scene that's above average saucy), and [Lesty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lesty) for being the real mvp (this fic wouldn't exist without you) and helping with the brainstorming and also beta-ing the fic <3<3<3 I've been working on this fic since 7th October, 2018 (according to the doc data lol) and the brainstorming process began a month before that; this is pretty much my brain baby that took a little too long to be birthed. 
> 
> As you can probably tell by the tags, this story is rather depressing (but I promise I'll fix everything by the end). Please heed the tags. I'll have warnings in the notes for each chapter (if any warning is a spoiler then I'll have a link to the warnings in the end notes), and please tell me if there are any issues with my tagging.
> 
> It's set in a combo of the MCU and 616 universe, and I was reading Avengers (1998) while writing the latter half of the story and I feel like that had a pretty strong influence. You don't need any comic knowledge in order to read the fic.
> 
> I'll be updating weekly on Wednesday/Thursday.
> 
> **Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel. I'm just having a go at the sandbox.**

THIS FANFICTION IS HOSTED ON **ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN** , WHERE YOU CAN READ IT FOR **FREE**. IF YOU’RE READING THIS ON A DIFFERENT WEBSITE, IT WAS POSTED THERE **WITHOUT** THE AUTHOR’S CONSENT.

**_“And then I looked at the stars, and considered how awful it would be for a man to turn his face up to them as he froze to death, and see no help or pity in all the glittering multitude.”_ **

Later, when Tony looked back on that day _~~(the day that changed his life, the day that ruined his life, the day that, the day that)~~_ , he would remember the flowers first.

It was the height of spring. Normally, New York’s spring was different to California’s: despite a lack of the greenery that defined California, there was something in the air that made the change in season prominent in the bustling city. The grass was lush _~~(and fuck the greenery that continued on~~ — ~~)~~ _and the trees offered shade from the sun’s heat. Flower shops were suddenly brimming, and Tony had found himself, at least once a week, standing in line with a bouquet in hand, whether it was for a friend (Pepper and Rhodey were very appreciative, but it turned out that Happy had a rather severe allergy) or the empty vase in the living room.

Jarvis hadn’t raised an eyebrow when Tony had started bringing them into the house at first, as he was prone to do when surprised, instead accepting this without a hitch. Tony had appreciated it; he preferred the Avengers – and Jarvis – to think he was just buying them on a whim, instead of the truth: Steve had mentioned, in an offhand sort of way, that he liked flowers.

Tony, when he looked back, didn’t see the vase of red carnations he’d bought the day before on the way back from work. But he remembered the conversation _~~(the last, the last, the last)~~ _that happened as a result of them.

Steve had been sketching when Tony walked in that morning, right leg over the left with his sketchpad on his thigh. It was his rough drawing pad, the one with the cheaper paper. Tony still didn’t know the difference between the drawings done in each, seeing how Steve’s quality didn’t change with the sketchpads. The gentle scratch of his pencil permeated the air, making Tony smile.

“Morning,” he had called as he made his way over to the coffee pot. Steve being up meant that there would be fresh coffee for him.

“Morning, Tony.” Tony looked over just to bask in the smile he knew Steve would send his way _~~(he’s never going to see it again is he)~~ , _and he wasn’t disappointed. “These flowers are beautiful.”

Every time Steve complimented the flowers, something warm grew in Tony’s chest, and it had nothing to do with heart burn. “Carnations,” he told Steve. “The lady selling them to me said they’re really blooming this year.” 

Steve hummed in response, still gazing at the arrangement in the vase. Tony walked over to sit beside him _~~(a safe distance away, always too far away; he was always too worried about pretences to be of any use, wasn’t he~~ — ~~)~~_. His hands were wrapped around the _Star Wars_ mug that Clint had gotten him for Christmas that year, and it read “THE FORCE IS STRONG IN MY COFFEE”. Needless to say, Tony adored it.

“My ma liked flowers,” Steve said in a conversational tone. Tony almost choked on the mouthful he’d just swallowed; did Steve associate flowers with his dead mother? “She taught me the names of the ones we’d spot. This one time, I got it in my head that I’d steal a plant or two, roots an’ all, just so we could grow some.” 

“Captain America was a flower thief? What the press could do with that,” Tony said lightly, grinning.

Steve’s mouth upturned, and Tony regretted not sitting across from him, if just to catch another smile. Steve’s eyes were on the sketchpad. They tracked the movements of his hand as it drew. Tony didn’t tilt his head to check; he wouldn’t do that. _~~(He’d only done that once, about three weeks after this day, and even then, it’d been at Steve’s wishes.)~~_ “I didn’t steal any that looked like people were really carin’ for. Just the ones that looked like they hadn’t been watered in a while. I went down a few blocks from our place, for obvious reasons.” His Brooklyn accent came out tentatively, then stronger, when he talked about his childhood.

“You say that like you assume I was a flower thief too.”

Steve shrugged. “Maybe you were.” 

“Nah, my criminal record’s more…drunken misadventures, public nudity, property damage… Anyway, continue with your villainous escapades.”

Steve huffed a laugh, his grin exposing a flash of teeth for the first time that morning. “There really wasn’t much ‘escapade-ing’. I walk to this place, in this slightly-more-well-off-than-us street, and there’s this apartment there that has this tiny patch of space between it and the road, and there were these larkspurs growin’. I couldn’t see the colour, but I’m sure they were dying. So I look around, and there’s no one there that I can see, so I get down on my knees and start diggin’ in the dirt tryin’a get one or two with the roots perfectly attached. I figure, I can get dirt anywhere. I’ve just gotten the second one out when I hear this shoutin’ from one of the windows up high, and this lady there’s just _screaming_ her lungs out at me about her beloved flowers. Guess maybe they weren’t dyin’.

“So I run. And instead’a goin’ back to my place, I head to Bucky’s, ‘cause I want the flowers to be presentable, y’know? I walk in through the door, and he stares at me – I’m jus’ glad his family don’t see me first – and drags me to the back o’ the house, and whispers, ‘who’d ya kill for that?’ An’ I have no idea what he’s on about, till I glance down and see that there’s all this blood on my hands. Turns out I ripped a nail or somethin’ diggin’ it out, and I bled easy back then. So Bucky thought I stole the damn Elixir of Life or somethin’.”

Tony was laughing, mostly in disbelief.

“I gave him one, and he apparently tried to make tea with it, and Mrs Barnes wouldn’t let him drink it and chucked out the whole thing. Ours was growin’ fine for a little bit, but then Ma got sick that year, and it kinda just… went with her.”

Steve’s hand had stopped moving across the page. Tony put his hand on Steve’s shoulder, trying to give it a comforting squeeze. “We should make a rooftop garden.” _~~(He was chock full of promises he didn’t keep, wasn’t he?)~~_

Steve turned to him for the first time since he’d sat down, and smiled softly. “I’d like that.”

Tony couldn’t help from returning the smile, eyes trapped in Steve’s steady gaze. If he were an artist in any way that mattered, he would draw Steve. _~~(He wouldn’t even try now, because there was no one on this planet, no one on any planet, who could capture life and give it back to him.)~~_

That morning was going far too well, so naturally, the next thing that happened was their identicards beeping. Steve and Tony simultaneously reached into their pockets and pulled them out. Tony drained the last of the coffee in his mug.

“Nat, what’s up?” Steve was already walking to his room to get his uniform. Tony followed him, summoning the armour from the wristbands.

“Some wizard in Central Park. He’s shooting laser beams, but the only casualties so far are trees. And a pram. But—” Natasha broke off with a curse.

The armour was holding Tony’s underarmour in its hands. Tony grabbed it and began to strip methodically, clothes landing in a pile on Steve’s floor, as he listened to Natasha talk.

“Just get here ASAP, okay? It’s just me here. We don’t need more property damage on our hands, and everyone and their goddamn mother seems to have come out to picnic today.”

It wasn’t that Tony _wanted_ to strip and change in Steve’s room. It just happened sometimes. Because of the armour’s flexibility, he could change anywhere, so it made sense that, in a rush, they’d come to Steve’s room to do so; he could grab Steve and fly them out immediately after. And it wasn’t just Steve – the other week, he’d changed in Barton’s room.

The armour wrapped itself around Tony’s body, and he smiled as the faceplate fell over his face, feeling at home in the cocoon over his body. Steve’s head moved away quickly as he turned to him, the tips of his ears visibly reddened. Tony frowned, as he did every time he saw Steve’s bare ears – there was no way that was safe. But so far, Steve had vetoed every design Tony had come up with, on the grounds that it muffled his hearing.

He’d pull it up higher on his urgent list. _~~(It was far too fucking late for that, wasn’t it?)~~_

“Ready?” he asked, offering a hand. Steve stepped up to him, eyes averted, and wrapped an arm around his waist. Tony sometimes imagined what it’d be like without the armour and leather gloves between them.

The window opened, and he tightened his grip, flying them out.

* * *

The sun was still shining when they landed in the middle of the battle. It was astonishing, really, how much damage a single person could inflict on the area. There were large patches of charred grass, with little blackened craters spotting the Park. Some trees also sported holes, and Tony winced at the backlash they’d no doubt be facing from environmentalists.

“Took you long enough,” Natasha said over the comms. “What, did you have to get your suits from the dry cleaning?”

“Gotta look sharp for the villains,” Tony replied, ducking as a beam of light flew in his direction. “It’s been scientifically proven that Iron Man’s dashing looks are behind their mistakes that ultimately lead to us beating them.” 

Natasha made a noise that was what many would consider to be unbecoming of a lady, murmuring something under her breath that Tony couldn’t pick up.

Steve apparently did, because he missed the shield as it sailed towards him, sticking itself into a tree. “Chatter,” he barked, jogging over to yank it out.

“Getting too old for Frisbee, Steve?” Tony called, shooting a repulsor set to stun. He didn’t know why he said _Steve_ and not _Cap_ , as he usually did.

“Maybe I meant for it to hit the tree,” Steve said sullenly. 

_~~(He’d taken it for granted, that they were invincible.)~~ _

“I’ll go high; you keep him distracted.” Tony did a figure eight in the air, beams of fiery light narrowly missing him.

“You _fly_ in a _red and gold suit of armour_. How about you do the distracting?” Natasha countered.

“Has he said anything? Made any demands?” Steve asked.

“Nope. Hasn’t said a word. Hasn’t tried to communicate in any way.”

Steve took a step forward. “Let me see if I can talk him down.”

Tony hesitated. “Okay,” he said. “I got your back if shit goes sideways.”

“I know you do, Shellhead.”

_~~(That was possibly the worst part of it all, because he hadn’t, had he? Steve had had his, but he’d failed his friend when it mattered the most, and now—)~~ _

“Son? Let’s talk, alright?” Steve stood with the shield lowered, one hand held out in front of him, reaching. “What’s your name?” 

The man opposite him, whom Tony hadn’t even been able to _see_ properly before this _~~(but now would never forget)~~_ , said nothing. He wore what appeared to be a silk bathrobe, shimmery silver. It was knotted at the waist, and didn’t seem to have anything under it, or even shoes, for that matter. Tony hoped to any and all higher powers that the knot held. FRIDAY was running facial recognition, but so far there were no red flags showing up. He was a brunet, with hair shaved in a buzzcut. _Military, maybe_? Tony had thought.

Steve was still talking. “…let us cuff you with power dampeners, and come sit down for a chat. We can help you figure stuff out. There’ll be no charges pressed. Just—”

The man raised his arms in a flash, white hot light bursting out of his palms like something out of a sci-fi movie, one with a low CGI budget at that. Tony didn’t think before shooting down to place himself in front of Steve, the beam hitting the armour in the chest as he tried to make himself as big as he could to cover Steve’s broad frame. 

_Shields 49%,_ the HUD read. An improvement from the last time they’d fought a magician, in Tony’s opinion, although it could just mean that this was a B-grade villain they were fighting.

“Thanks for the save. You alright?” Steve asked, already moving back into the fight.

“Peachy. I upgraded against these so-called magicians since our last one,” Tony responded, flying around Shimmery Robes in a dizzying circle.

“What are you, a merry-go-round?” Natasha said under her breath.

“I’d be happy to give you a ride. Hey, we should have a theme park.”

The man suddenly dropped like a sack of potatoes, going to his knees, then slumping onto the grass. Natasha emerged from behind him, a dark shadow. 

“Good work,” Steve said, walking up towards them.

Natasha bent over the still body, checking his pulse. “He’s good,” she said.

Tony handed over a pair of handcuffs from one of the compartments in the suit, watching as Natasha shifted the man’s arms to cuff his wrists. His faceplate flipped up for a moment. “I gotta say, I’m grateful for the robe being a real team player and covering up—” 

It happened so fast that he didn’t have time to move. One second the man lay there, appearing to be perfectly unconscious, and the next, his left hand – the one still free – came up and shot straight at Tony’s unmasked face _~~(in a seventy point three five-degree angle)~~._

Something hard and rock-solid shoved him, and even in the armour, Tony stumbled sideways and fell. He turned around just in time to see Steve crumpling to the ground, one hand reaching to his chest, where there was a round, smoking hole in his costume.

 _No_. Tony didn’t know if he said it aloud or in his head, but it didn’t matter. He fell just as Steve had fallen mere milliseconds ago, gauntlets retracting so he could check for Steve’s pulse himself. He didn’t care how much better FRIDAY was at it. He needed to see for himself. The name was stuck in his mouth, unwilling to leave his throat. _Steve._ There was nothing. No beat, no breath. Steve’s body was absolutely, impossibly still. _No, no, no._

_Not for me, you fool._

Alright, he told himself. Just because Steve didn’t have a heartbeat didn’t mean he couldn’t be resuscitated. It could mean his pulse was too low for them to sense. For FRIDAY to pick up. 

The gauntlets went back on, as fast as he could _~~(too slow, too slow, too slow)~~_ and he took in a breath, and let FRIDAY do the work for him. She’d be much more reliable. As the armour sent electric pulses running through Steve’s body again and again, Tony watched, faceplate still up, as it had no effect on Steve’s body. What sort of a world let Captain America sacrifice himself for _Tony_?

“Up the intensity,” he whispered. There was a numbness that was spreading through his veins. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears, and it seemed cruel that he would be able to hear the sound of his own vitality so clearly when Steve’s was gone. _~~(Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa.)~~_

He should’ve been paying attention. He should’ve been faster. He should’ve been on guard. 

“Boss, I don’t think that’s—” 

“Do it!” His voice burst out of him, too loud. There was a ringing in his ears. Steve couldn’t’ve sacrificed himself for Tony. Tony would’ve survived that blast.

“Tony,” Natasha spoke from behind him, voice hoarse. The man _~~(murderer)~~ _lay at her feet, a swelling bruise on his temple where there hadn’t been one before. “Stop.”

And at her words, Tony sagged, muttering to FRIDAY to cease. He sat there, on his knees, staring at the body of Captain America where it lay. Natasha didn’t move, and neither did he.

_I got your back if shit goes sideways._

_I know you do, Shellhead._

* * *

Tony didn’t know how he went to sleep that night. Hell, Tony didn’t know how he even made it back to the Mansion. The events since then and now (it didn’t matter when ‘now’ was because the sentiment was still relevant) were a blur of numb grey, made somewhat distinguishable only by the times exhaustion forced his body to sleep. And sleep allowed the nightmares to come into play.

They were, as always, vicious. Tony had never been one to deny what they told him, but now it was cowing. Every time he would close his eyes, he’d meet a Steve he’d never known in life, one that was rightfully furious, spitting words at Tony in a tone that he’d never heard come from Steve’s mouth, not even at the worst of criminals.

Those dreams were far better, however, than the nights where he would wake up from another run-through of Steve’s death. From another second-by-second rerun of the way he’d been hit in the chest with a bright beam of fucking _magic_ and gone down in an instant, without so much as a last dying word. And his least favourite: when dream logic snapped into action and took away everything but his sight, forcing him to stand there and watch Steve fall to the ground.

In those dreams, the cause of death wasn’t always the same. Sometimes it was bloody. Sometimes the grass was stained red, the little white dandelions bloodied in the same way the poppies on Flanders Field had been soaked with soldiers’ blood during the First World War. Red, red, red flowers.

Those nights he woke up and went to work. It was easier now that he was practically living in his workshop; he’d practically abandoned his bedroom since the incident. Despite the team (and his friends) mourning on their own terms, they were the reason Tony was functioning as well as he was – which was to say, he hadn’t started drinking again, drowning himself into a stupor and hoping to never come out.

 _Steve wouldn’t want you to do this to yourself_ , was what he heard the most. And every time, he had to stop himself from snapping, _Steve wouldn’t want to be dead._

Because it wasn’t worth it.

How was Tony supposed to live with himself, with the knowledge that he was the reason Steve Rogers was gone? How was he supposed to _move on_ and _live like Steve would want him to_ if Steve couldn’t?

And how did Tony Stark, with all the sins engraved into his soul, deserve to be breathing while all that was left of Steve was the mantle of Captain America? 

Tonight (if it _was_ night) he had no idea how long he’d been staring at the line of code in front of him. The words seemed to fly in front of his eyes, and when he blinked, his eyes complained at how long they’d been left open.

There was a wineglass on the counter beside the sink, all the way on the other side of the workshop. Tony could see it from where he was seated; he had a direct view of it. He didn’t know why he didn’t remove it. It’d come out on a night (day?) he’d been at his weakest, at his most self loathing, a night he’d been awake for far too long and had read too many a wikia page on conversion of death energy. 

His shaky hand had poured out a glass.

Even when his vision had gone spotty from lack of proper sustenance and sleep deprivation, body slightly dizzy and off-balance, he could still pour without spilling a drop. 

But the glass had remained untouched. It sat there, undisturbed by the bots or Tony himself, gathering dust as it sat there, a reminder. Tony didn’t know what to do with it.

On the brink of exhausted sleep, head resting on the cool surface of his workbench he thought he heard a voice say from behind him, “God, Tony. You have to stop doing this.”

If he’d turned his head, he would’ve seen the familiar figure of Steve Rogers, standing there behind his makeshift pillow, arms crossed over his chest and in his pristine uniform.


	2. I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony spirals downwards in a series of leaps and hops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: alcohol abuse and possibly suicidal ideation (definitely mentions of it).

**_"Quem deus vult perdure dementat prius. Whom the gods wish to ruin, they first drive mad."_ **

There was a man following him around. He looked like a cruel caricature of Tony’s late best friend. He was there in the morning, standing by the window when Tony woke up. He was there during breakfast, staring longingly at the coffee pot (Tony could relate). He was there late at night, a disapproving frown etched onto his face by Michelangelo himself as he watched Tony ignore the clock.

Tony didn't know what to do.

He woke up on the couch in his workshop and avoids looking to the window where he knew the man would be as he sat upright slowly. His mouth was cottony, and there would’ve been a time where he would have attested the sensation to a late night partying, but not _that_ hard.

His phone was in his pocket for once, buzzing loudly in the quiet. The silence echoed loudly in the workshop, but Tony couldn't bring himself to put on music. Music would be forgetting, losing himself in a certain joy of sound, and he couldn't do that. Instead, he pulled out his phone and squinted blearily at the bright screen.

4 emails forwarded from Pepper (trying to pile him with work as a distraction).

2 missed calls from Rhodey (probably more attempts to get him outside the building).

2 texts from Jan (she was now sole leader of the Avengers).

2 texts from Happy (wanting him to box his grief away instead of hiding in the shop).

89 messages on their Avengers group chat that no one had used since.

That alone was what made Tony sit straighter in the soft couch cushions, a detached fury plunging through him and making him more alert than he had been for so long. They had an unspoken agreement. No one was to touch that group chat, drenched in Steve’s ghost.

He opened it up, unable to bring himself to dismiss the notifications.

Expecting something domestic and Clint-like, he was (pleasantly?) surprised to find it was absolute gibberish. It was like what happened when one’s code accidentally prints an image as text: it was a whole bunch of messages with a random mixture of letters, numbers, and symbols. It went on for the entire eighty-nine messages that Tony had been so angry about.

It was probably a glitch in the system – and a major one, at that. Or someone had hacked their mundane group chat that they never even used for Avengers business.

What mattered was that it gave Tony something to do. His fingers were already itching to look at them in depth, to find the source, to pick out the glitch in the system and fix it. Maybe they’d spit out another StarkPhone update earlier than scheduled.

His stomach gave an insistent gurgle, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since his liquid breakfast the previous day. Knowing that someone would be down to physically drag him out, he stood and left the workshop, gaze lowered the whole time. 

He couldn't stand to see _it_.

* * *

“You saw it?” was the first thing out of Clint’s mouth when Tony walked into the kitchen. It was a lot later than he’d originally thought – one in the afternoon. 

“The messages? Yeah, I did.” He walked over to the coffee pot, but was intercepted by a glare from Bruce, and instead made his way over to where Thor was making pancakes.

“Who do you think hacked us?” Clint asked as he chewed. The last few weeks had taken their toll on him: there were dark bags under his eyes, giving him a dead look; his fingers kept twitching like they yearned for his bow; this was the first time since that Tony had had a verbal conversation with him instead of in ASL.

There were moments he wished he could confront the whole world with ASL, never speaking again. Steve did always complain about chatter.

“No clue. I’m thinking it might just be a glitch,” Tony told him, voice scratchy. There was a sharp sting at the back of his throat from his recent diet that he drowned with a mouthful of chocolate chip pancake dipped in maple syrup.

Clint looked at him skeptically. “Really? For eighty-nine messages?”

Tony shrugged. “Who’d hack a _group chat_? Half of us have secret identities.”

“Some teen who got dared to?” Bruce said from where he was leaning against the counter, cup of tea in hand.

“You speak as though from experience,” Thor rumbled from beside him, still flipping pancakes. He was wearing the apron Steve had gotten him the previous year, one random Thursday, Tony noted distantly, clutching his fork a little tighter.

He didn't hear Bruce’s reply, because right at that moment, Steve walked over to the coffee pot. He was wearing what he usually wore: loose sweatpants, a T-shirt that hugged his torso, no shoes. His hair was mussed up like he'd just woken up. Tony’s heart beat faster and faster, hands frozen mid-air.

And then Steve turned around and looked Tony in the eye, a questioning glance. He opened his mouth to say something to Tony—

“Tony? You alright?” Clint leaned over, a frown on his face.

And with that, Steve disappeared.

Tony didn't know how he reacted, but one moment he wa sitting on the stool and the next he was pushing it away from the kitchen countertop and walking away. He ran a hand through his hair, breath coming a little hysterically as he fought to keep his expression neutral.

He could hear the others calling him but kept moving until he reached the bathroom, where he locked the door and turned on the shower to make sure no one could hear his gasps. He wasn't crying, but his body had all the symptoms tears brought, with none of the relief.

He didn't know how long it was before the knocks on the door ceased, and he sat there with his head on his knees and his upper thighs going numb from sitting so still.

* * *

“Tony?” Tony let out a muffled grunt, slowly coming into awareness. “Tony, c’mon. Get up.”

Tony tried to move his head upright but there was a moment of blinding pain from the back of his head, going all the way down to his neck. He must’ve slept in the worst position the night before.

He hears a wet laugh. “God, I don’t even know if you can _hear_ me.”

Just like ripping off a Band-aid, he told himself, straightening his body in one rushed movement. Tony’s eyes were squeezed shut as he curved his spine backwards, wincing at the stiffness of his muscles. He really was getting too old for this.

“You’d be doing a lot better if you didn’t sleep on the floor,” the voice told him.

Something was wrong about this whole situation. Tony didn’t want to open his eyes. His head was pounding, and at this point, he had no idea if it because of a lack of food, water, or if it was just being a bitch.

“C’mon, stand up,” the voice coaxed. It didn’t move to touch him, and Tony was grateful.

Moving his legs under him, Tony shifted his weight and pushed himself up with his hands, swaying alarmingly. The fact that he hadn’t opened his eyes yet made the whole thing worse. It was honestly a little like being drunk, and the thought of drinking didn't disappear from Tony’s mind as quickly as he knew it should.

He could feel the blood rushing back into his legs and his lower back, and knew he had about a minute before the pins and needles would become momentarily unbearable. He opened his eyes.

He was in the bathroom. The events of… He had no idea how long it had been since the incident in the kitchen. The bathroom was dark – he’d come in in the morning and hadn’t turned on the lights, and now the sky outside was dark. If he went outside now, he’d probably see someone inconspicuously watching the door.

Tony stumbled across the large bathroom to the sink, cursing under his breath as fire flared up in his lower body, adding to the list of things he currently hated about it. Turning the tap, he splashed water on his face, running cold fingers through his hair in an effort to alleviate the ache of his headache.

After a moment or so of standing there, hands braced on either side of the sink, Tony looked up, straight into the mirror. He should really shave – it didn't matter how much he was falling apart internally if he maintains his external appearance; most won’t be able to tell. Just as he was thinking about using one of the spare razors he knew was kept in each bathroom, he caught a glimpse of something behind him. His heart quickened, and he was frozen in place.

“Steve,” he said in a breathy whisper.

Or rather, it was Captain America. In full battle regalia, complete with the shield slung over his back, Captain America stood leaning against the back wall, facing towards Tony. He was wearing the cowl, but even so, Tony had watched Steve enough to be able to identify him even with just the lower half of his face showing.

Tony watched the mirror, unable to look away, until the figure moved. The smooth grace Steve conducted himself with was there, in the liquid movements of the person standing behind Tony. He stepped away from the wall and a hand goes to his cowl, as though confused.

And that was when Tony spun around, heart hammering. He knew there was a high chance that he would start weeping at the sight of Steve’s face – _Steve’s_ , not Captain America’s – but he wanted to see with his own eyes, not through a reflection.

But when he turned, there was no one there.

* * *

Tony was spiralling into insanity.

At least, that was the only explanation he had for why he kept hallucinating Steve everywhere. He was a manifestation of Tony’s failure, Tony’s guilt, Tony’s _grief_.

He’d done all sorts of tests on himself, from blood samples to brain scans, and everything had come back normal. He even did a BAC test, just in case. But everything indicated to insanity.

He’d accept that Steve was a ghost if the others could see him too, but it’d been very obvious that they were oblivious to his presence. They didn't so much as shiver when they went through him.

So the obvious scientific conclusion was that Steve was plaguing Tony because Tony hadn't saved him.

* * *

“I’m worried about you,” Rhodey said. They were in a café, on one of the small round tables outside. Tony could count on one hand the number of times he’d been outside since it happened. “It’s been two months.”

“I’m dealing, Rhodey,” Tony said tiredly. He fought the urge to rub at his eyes; there was concealer there to make the dark bags less pronounced. “I’ll be fine.”

“But you aren’t fine _now_ ,” Rhodey stated. He was looking at Tony intently, and Tony was staring at his coffee mug to avoid his gaze. “It isn’t even like that first week. You were better in the _first week_. Now you’re jumping at shadows, you’re barely working, you’re distracted, and Pepper tells me you came to the office at six one night thinking it was early morning.”

“So I’m a little tense,” Tony conceded. He knew that the second he told someone that he was hallucinating his dead best friend, he would officially be given a ‘crazy’ label. He’d be taken off the team, it’d be all over the media, the stock prices would be all over the place… The list could go on forever.

And part of him thought that maybe, if he didn't talk about it, it wouldn't be real.

He refused to look towards the window, just in case Steve was standing there. He always seemed to gravitate towards windows. 

Rhodey sighed. “I’m gonna be staying for a little while, to help with the team. Just—you can come to me any time, you know that, right?”

“I know.” And Tony did know.

* * *

Breath came ragged as Tony fought to stand up. All around him were the remains of what had once been the top floors of an apartment complex, now threatening to come down and crush him. 

He got to his feet, Iron Man armour whirring as it did its best to help him.

“Iron Man, do you copy?” Wasp demanded. 

“I’m here,” Tony replied, coughing a little. “I’m good. I got thrown into an apartment. Where’s the lizard?”

Because of course they were fighting a reptile. It was a Thursday, after all. 

_Shields at 87%. Thrusters at half capacity. Life support systems at 65%._

Tony scanned for civilians. Despite there being numerous orders to everyone in the area to evacuate – the lizard was ten feet – there were always New Yorkers who stuck around anyway, a mixture of courageous and incredible stupidity. But in a city that was attacked on a weekly, even daily, basis, there were only so many times one could run before the battles became their new way of life.

There was someone a floor down.

Tony flew outside through one of the gaping holes in the wall, and hovered around one of the smashed windows, sensors working to track the civilian down. Any sudden moves would lead to the building potentially collapsing. Tony could hear Steve’s voice in his head, telling him to work carefully and methodically to make sure that didn’t happen.

He fought back the constant niggling – almost like muscle memory – to look for Steve, to talk to Steve on the comms, to check in with Steve about the situation. To monitor the cameras around the place checking whether he needed backup.

His sensors told him there was a woman crouched behind what appeared to be a kitchen counter with two small children huddled beside her. Tony flew around to the closest side of the apartment building, entering using what used to be a door to a balcony. He didn’t put any weight on the floor, instead choosing to hover with the thrusters and boot jets on the lowest possible level.

“Iron Man?” he heard a tearful voice say. One of the children. He rose slightly, intending to move across the room to Tony, before his mother tugged him back down with a hushed reprimand.

“Hi. Don’t move. I’m here to rescue you.” Tony landed lightly, testing the flooring.

The mother nodded, and Tony lifted the faceplate up – even though children liked Iron Man, they were always receptive to a human face. “Kids, I need you move across one at a time towards me, okay? I can’t go any farther than this.” Their mother seemed to grasp the _without risking the whole building collapsing faster_ that he left unsaid.

The child that had spoken up before stood up shakily, arms outstretched. He walked slowly, breath coming faster each time the floor creaked underneath him.

“That’s it, buddy, focus on me…” Tony grabbed him around the waist, lifting him up to stand on his left boot. “You next, sweetheart,” he said to the remaining child.

The child followed far more confidently than the previous, Tony noted with distant amusement. He was evidently younger, more willing to do things he’d seen his brother accomplish successfully. When the boy got close enough, he reached out with his right gauntlet.

“Grab my hand…”

“Damien,” the child told him, stretching his small hand out.

“On my boot, Damien.” Tony hoisted Billy up. “Your mother's next. What’s your name?”

“Catherine,” the woman said, standing up slowly. The floor gave a louder creak, but she kept her eyes trained on her boys standing on the Iron Man armour. “But most people call me Cat.”

“Well, Cat, you’re doing great,” Tony told her, even as the sensors ran wild. “Just keep moving…a little faster, now.”

Cat crossed the remaining space in a few bounds, reaching Tony.

“Hold onto me, kids,” Tony said. “Cat, put your arms around my neck, and don’t worry about strangling me.”

With that, he lifted off, going as fast as he could while keeping the armour in an upright position in order to keep the two children on either boot balanced. 

“Jan?” he said, faceplate now down. “I’ve got three civilians—”

“Tony, thank god! Where were you?” came the heated response.

Tony frowned. “What do you mean, where was I? I was online the whole time.”

“You haven’t answered your comms for ten minutes! We were just about to send someone after you!”

Tony was taken aback. “I—I’ll look into that. Must’ve been some glitch. I’m sorry.”

Jan sighed. “It wasn’t your fault. I’m—we’re all on edge. It’s weird being out here like this.” _Without Steve._

Tony swallowed down the sudden lump in his throat as he landed near where the emergency services were camped out, readying a neutral expression for when he opened the faceplate.

“Thank you! Thank you so much!” Cat said to him, giving him a hug that he couldn’t feel as she stepped back.

“Thank you, Mr Iron Man,” Damien and his brother chorused, seeming to be completely recovered from their traumatic experience.

Tony gave them a smile and a wave, flying back up. Now that there was no one in the building, they needed to find a way to stop it from collapsing entirely.

“We just finished up with the lizard,” Natasha said, breathing heavily. “I fucking hate reptiles.”

“That’s a strong reaction,” Clint replied. “What’d they ever do to you?”

There was quiet over the comms, so Tony had to assume they were either on a private line or Clint had been silenced another way.

“We’re not done yet, people,” he reminded them. “That building’s going down any minute. I need Thor and Jan with me. The rest of you, there’s plenty of clean-up on the streets.” The tiniest smile involuntary appeared on his face at the sound of Clint’s grumbling, the first all week. It was the sound of things being _normal_ , no matter how far they were from it. 

His scans all told him one thing: there were four weightbearing pillars central to the design that had been damaged during the battle. All they needed to do was ensure that they didn’t continue to deteriorate, and it would hold until they could get proper teams in with the equipment to repair the building correctly, maybe even renovate a little. 

He relayed the information to Jan and Thor.

“I’m closest to the north-west corner,” Jan replied. “Thor?”

“Aye. I have the east corner. I will hold it in place until one of you arrive,” Thor said.

“The south-east pillar is the strongest out of the others. We should be okay getting to it last,” Tony told them.

“I got it,” Jan said determinedly. She finished with the pillar she had before enlarging herself.

There was a loud _crack_.

“Shit,” Tony muttered, HUD beeping wildly. “This place is going down any minute.” He quickly finished the wall he was on, building creaking alarmingly around him. It almost felt like there was a brush of wind, but the sensors didn’t pick up anything out of the ordinary.

“Thor? How’s it going down your end?” Jan called. Despite the evident strain in her voice, it still managed to sound cheery.

“The column is holding steady, Wasp,” Thor rumbled. “However, the walls and roof have begun to decay.”

“Wasp, head to Thor after you’re done – you’re closer than me. I’ll get the last column,” Tony said.

There was a moment’s hesitation before Jan responded with an, “Alright, but don’t go developing a death wish on me, Tony.”

Tony didn’t reply, startled. People had been tiptoeing around him for months now; this was the first time someone had called him out on anything. Instead, he flew over to the remaining corner of the building, having to fly slower than usual to avoid accidentally disturbing any unstable areas.

In the time that they’d spent on the other three, this pillar had deteriorated at an exponential rate. Theoretically, if three of them held firm, then the loss of this one wouldn’t have too large an impact on the overall building, but that approximation didn’t consider the loss of a number of smaller columns in various spots throughout the apartment. It probably also didn’t take into account the extent of the damage. Tony had no idea how it’d gotten this bad so fast.

Tony had just begun working on it when Jan spoke in his ear.

“Iron Man, we just finished. Do you need any assistance?”

“I’m fine, Wasp. Just started on this side. It’s definitely worse than the others, but it should be done soon. You two get out – the fewer people we have moving around in here, the better.”

“Okay then. I trust your judgement.” Tony could picture the look on her face, assessing and open. Her words held an undertone of her previous warning: _don’t go developing a death wish on me_.

He’d just gotten to the worst of the cracks in the column when he spotted something in the corner of his eye. Instead of turning, he used his sensors to detect any lifeforms. They came back negative.

But there was definitely something moving there. Against his judgement, Tony turned his head.

There was nothing.

Frowning, he paused the work on the pillar, turning around fully. Maybe it was another glitch in the armour – perhaps his mind hadn’t been firing on all cylinders when he’d done the last few upgrades and patch-ups. It wouldn’t be a surprise; the last time he’d been ‘okay’ was before the incident. Steve would be so disappointed to know that he’d fallen as far as he had.

He turned back to the pillar, intending to finish the patch-up job and get back to the workshop for no reason other than to get away from the field and the armour and the adoring civilians who _thanked_ him for saving them, who saw him as a hero. 

There was movement in front of him, clear to him as the sky. Without thinking, Tony let out a repulsor blast, and it went straight through the bland figure and into the opposite wall, creating a giant hole and sending a small shockwave through the entire building.

“Steve?” Tony didn’t know if the word actually made a sound when his mouth shaped it, a name as familiar to him as his own. He stifled a gasp, muting the comms on his side. Steve stood there, dressed in all white – white T-shirt stuck to his torso as they were prone to doing and white sleep pants that Tony had probably seen before. His feet were bare and Tony found himself resisting the urge to rush towards him and pick him up, stop him from cutting his feet from all the debris on the ground.

“Tony?” The figure whipped his head towards him, mouth open with shock. “You can hear me?”

“Is it really you?” Tony couldn’t seem to move, despite the sounds of the building creaking dangerously around him.

“Tony, you need to go! Now!” Steve was running towards him, moving just as fast as he did when he’d been alive even though his feet made no sound as they hit the floor.

Steve didn’t show up on _any_ of his sensors, including the ones he’d created just for sensing supernatural beings. What was he, if not a figment of Tony’s imagination?

Steve tried to shove at Tony, but his hands went straight through him. Tony fought down a wave of grief, staring at the man before him. His hair was perfectly mussed, like it looked about an hour or so after Steve had combed it. Tony hadn’t seen his eyes in weeks now, always glancing away whenever he saw pictures of Steve or hallucinated him, but now they were boring into him and he couldn’t look away.

Steve had been shouting at him for what seemed to be a long time when Tony zoned back in. “—wrong with you! Go! Tony, _please_!” His voice broke as he pleaded with Tony.

Tony blinked, finally seeing what was all around him – the way a section of the apartment building had already fallen away, how the ceiling had caved in in the far corner and blocked off the huge emptiness in the wall that he’d been intending to use to exit.

And then he looked at Steve in front of him, memorising his features. Tony frowned slightly; Steve looked mad.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, somewhat childishly. It was like his whole universe had narrowed down to one single point, and nothing else existed outside of it, even if he was aware of its occurrence.

“What’s—” Steve ran an agitated hand through his hair, practically ripping out strands. “This building is going to _collapse_ on you. The other wings might hold, but this one will certainly fall, and with the weight of the rooftop, you’ll be crushed under all this rubble. Even with the armour, you won’t come out of that _alright_. Is that bad enough for you, or do we need something like an alien invasion for you to get worried?”

“Maybe it’s karma,” Tony said. His head was the clearest it’d been in _weeks_. He couldn’t take his eyes off of Steve. He wished he had an artist’s talent.

“What is?” Steve frowned.

Tony gestured around him. “All this. I let you die, so now in my time of dying, you’re here to take me away. It’s fitting, really.”

Steve stared at him, eyes wide. His hands, previously clenched in fists at his side, were now open, as though they no longer had the rage to be held tight and angry. He squeezed his eyes tight and let out a heavy breath before snapping them open and fixating them onto Tony, who shivered at their intensity.

“We don’t have time for your guilt and your shitty lack of self-preservation,” he growled. “If you ever respected me, if you ever cared for me, if you were ever _my friend_ , you’ll fly out of here _now_.”

Tony studied him for a moment, before nodding his head shakily. He closed the faceplate, HUD flashing warning signs at him both visually and auditorily. The ground beneath his feet gave way, and he flew, taking off towards the nearest wall. It didn’t help that the roof had caved in in various places, leaving a pile of rubble that would take far too long to move or blast through.

“Try that wall,” Steve urged him.

When Tony glanced to where the voice had come from, he saw that Steve was floating beside him, not even in a horizontal position but standing vertically as he moved in the air. It left him with an unsettling feeling; if he wasn’t on the ground during a battle, then he was usually on Tony’s boot, one arm wrapped around the waist of the armour while Tony’s reciprocated. 

“Focus!” Steve shouted. He was burning with an intensity, panic hidden beneath his features. “Fly forward, and then shoot a repulsor at that wall!”

Tony followed his instructions – there were days, when they were peaceful, when there were no fights or arguments or last-minute risk plays, where he thought that maybe he’d been born for the purpose of following Steve. He flew forward, shooting at the wall from a distance. The sky gleamed before him, gloriously open and free.

There were about fifteen metres between him and the hole he’d just blasted in the wall. He pushed the armour, wanting to be _out_ , and there were two metres now and—

Something heavy fell onto him, falling from his back to weighing down his leg, and within a jiffy of it landing, another large block of concrete fell over Tony’s upper back, covering his head. Nothing he did mattered, but at least there was no pain. _That he could feel yet_ , his mind told him condescendingly. It was in Steve’s voice, too, making matters worse.

That was when he noticed that Steve, real-but-also-fake Steve, was also talking. “…hold on, okay? I can see Thor coming. Don’t try to move. You’ll dislodge it more and make things worse. Tony? Don’t go to sleep, okay?”

This would have to be another instance where he couldn’t follow Steve’s orders, Tony thought as he gave in to the blackness that’d been threatening him from the sidelines.

* * *

Jan was sitting where Steve normally would when Tony was the one in the hospital bed. He’d be in the corner by the window, not near the bed where others like Pepper or Rhodey would sit. Tony always assumed it was for security reasons – he’d be able to see outside while still have a perfect view of the door and of Tony. Happy did the same thing, but from the wall opposite the bed, so he’d be directly down from where Tony was, hidden by the door if it ever swung open.

Tony had no idea why his mind was thinking all this at that very moment. It would’ve been more logical if his first thought had been about the dryness of his throat, the cracked feel of his mouth, the crustiness of his eyes. He tried bringing a hand up to rub at them, but Jan was over in a flash, placing hers over it.

“Don’t move, sweetie,” she said to him. “Here, drink this.”

She held a cup with a straw in it near his mouth, and he sucked in water, draining half the cup before Jan took it away gently.

Tony cleared his throat. “What happened?”

“The building collapsed on you. Luckily, you weren’t in the worst parts. Thor got you out. You have a broken arm, a few broken ribs – you’re really lucky you didn’t puncture a lung, you know that? – and a broken fibula.”

Tony muttered a heartfelt curse. “When can I—”

“Three days,” Jan said before he could finish. “We’re taking turns watching you, so don’t even think about signing yourself out before then. We’ll bring you whatever you need in the meantime, but if I see you outside this hospital before then, I’ll sic both Natasha and Pepper on you.”

Tony hesitated, then nodded. 

Jan gave him another one of her smiles, but it seemed different. A tad too cheery. Her eyes had a bright sheen to them. “Rhodey’s waiting outside now,” she said. “I’ll tell him he can come in?”

Tony nodded, slightly confused, and she rose out of the chair, giving his good arm a squeeze, before practically pelting out of the room.

* * *

“You know, you’re really not as young as you used to be and you just got out of the hospital,” a voice grumbled from somewhere behind him. Tony groggily looked up, blinking blearily at his surroundings. “Your back’s going to ki— hurt like a bitch when you wake up, and maybe then you’d learn, but I doubt it.” 

The workshop was dark – the lights had automatically switched off when FRIDAY had registered him to be asleep. There was a faint outline of white glow on the steps and the bottom of the door, but the rest of the place was only faintly visible. Tony grunted as he straightened; whoever the voice was – his mind wasn’t quite at that stage yet, so he neither knew nor cared that there was a stranger somewhere in the room – had been right about that.

He fumbled around the drawers for a bottle of water, and upon finding it, took a swig to clear his mouth of the pillowy feel from his impromptu nap.

The voice was still talking. “…watching you work. I have so many sketches of you from where I’d sit, on that couch, sometimes, other times when you did paperwork in the kitchen or the living room or the library, and I kept meaning to make one that was good enough to show you, good enough to gift you, but none of them were perfect. I guess I kinda regret that now, huh.”

Tony’s breath hitched. It clicked, suddenly, why he had felt no defensive instincts upon hearing the voice. “Steve?” he called out, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Tony?” The voice sounded closer, but Tony didn’t dare open his eyes. He didn’t want to ruin the illusion of Steve. “Open your eyes. I’m here.”

“But you’re not,” Tony whispered. “You’re not really here. You’re a figment of my imagination, possibly my survival instinct, looking at recent events. It figures, really, that Captain America would be my subconscious.” 

Steve said something under his breath, incomprehensible to Tony’s ears. “Okay, fine. You want to be stubborn? Then go to the couch, the spot I sit when I’m down here.” When Tony went to shake his head, he added impatiently, “I’ll guide you there – you can still keep your eyes closed.

“Fine, but I know this place like…like I know the armour. If leading me to the couch is you attempting to convince me you’re not me, it isn’t a very good one.” 

“Just follow the goddamn instructions, Stark.”

Tony almost smiled at that. He listened to Steve’s voice as it led him told him to stand up, softening when his breath came out harsher at the pressure to his barely healed limbs. Tony collected the crutch as per Steve’s instructions, moving it slowly in fear of he knocking something over. It was a hazy experience, not even focusing on any other senses of his to guide him through. He ignored everything that wasn’t Steve’s voice in his head, Steve’s voice in his ears, the sound of Steve all throughout the workshop as it had once been before.

“Okay, if you move the crutch forward, you’ll hit the couch. The right side, to be specific,” Steve told him.

Tony swung his crutch forward, and it rebounded when it met with the soft cushion. “Okay, you got me here in one piece, Cap, I’ll give you that. Now what?" 

“Sit down. I’ll tell you if you need to shuffle over or anything.” Tony knew, if he opened his eyes now and Steve really was standing there, that he would have his arms folded over his chest loosely, stance still solid but relaxed. His chest ached.

Tony hobbled forward a bit before being in a position to sit down. He rested the crutch on the arm of the couch and leaned against the backrest. He might be content, just living the rest of his days out here in this moment if he could just pretend that Steve was there beside him on the couch.

“Lift up the cushion next to you,” Steve said.

Tony wrinkled his nose, doing so anyway even as he grumbled, “There are probably crumbs and shit under there.”

“Trust me, your bots do a good job cleaning. Now, you should be able to feel a flap. Lift it.”

Tony did so.

“Reach in—yeah, like that, just a bit more—did you find it…?”

Tony’s hands closed in on something stiff, like soft cardboard, perhaps—

It was a sketchbook. Tony’s eyes flew open and he stared at the object in his hands, before looking to where the voice had been coming from. Steve stood there, dressed in trousers with his trademark white T-shirt clinging to his torso. He was now crouched at Tony’s feet, careful not to touch any part of his body with his own.

“You can open it, Tony,” Steve said gently. He trailed a finger over the cover, stopping just millimetres away from where Tony’s hand lay.

Tony grabbed for Steve, letting out a guttural moan when his hand washed through the seemingly solid limb. It was like he’d just waved it in front of an open fridge door. His hands rubbed at his eyes until bright spots appeared.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said helplessly. “I can only make contact with some objects so far.”

Tony didn’t look at him, instead staring down at the sketchpad in his lap and willing the tears in his eyes to go away. He took in a shaky breath. “I can look at it?”

“Yeah, you can. In fact, I want you to.” Steve’s voice was soft; he _pitied_ Tony. “The drawing on the seventh page, not counting the inside cover, will be of you in the armour over New York City. In the background are Doombots, and Iron Man is shooting at them with repulsors. The armour’s partly coloured.”

Tony obediently turned the thick paper until he came to the page seven. It was exactly as Steve had described. Iron Man was forefront and centre, boots and sections of the torso in red and gold while the rest remained black and white. It was set right in front of Baxter Building, and Doombots crawled around on the streets, some flying up to meet Iron Man.

Tony didn’t know what this meant. Maybe Steve, at some point, had told him of his safe spot, of this exact drawing, but it wasn’t like Tony to forget something like that. Was Steve truly haunting him? He’d already run the tests – Steve didn’t exist according to technology. And if Steve didn’t exist, and Tony had watched him die, then there was only one conclusion: Steve was haunting him, for unfinished business, perhaps.

Tony traced a hand on the paper before jerking it back, afraid of ruining the artwork. He couldn’t help the single tear that fell onto the page, however, sinking into the paper and the lead and blurring Steve’s beautifully drawn lines. 

Staring in horror, Tony all but threw it onto the cushion beside him, scrambling back from it. Weight accidentally placed on his bad leg made him cry out in his haste to move away. Breath was coming out in short bursts, the pressure in his chest squeezing tight like a hug until he could no longer tell if there was air entering his lungs or not. He had to get away from this nightmare—

“Tony? Tony! Calm down! Listen to my voice, okay? Follow my breathing…”

But Tony’s breathing only became more and more ragged as Steve spoke, and finally, Steve got the message and quietened, disappearing from sight.

* * *

To say that he spiralled from then on was probably an understatement. Tony had no idea what it was exactly that set him off, but at one point the urge to drink overcame the soberness that he had kept up for almost a year now.

He hadn’t really told anyone that his one year was approaching (Carol and Henry didn’t count), but he’d eyed the date for a while, knowing that he wanted to celebrate in some way. Steve had been at the forefront of his mind. He wouldn’t tell him; they’d just go on another friend date, perhaps breakfast, and it’d be like Tony’s little secret because while he knew that Steve was – _had been_ – proud of him, they’d never discussed his alcoholism to begin with. They’d never talked about how it’d been when Tony had refused to even look at the wagon, living only for his next bottle. And Tony knew about Steve’s father.

So Tony had no plans of telling Steve about the one-year anniversary, but he’d wanted to spend the day with him. And now that day was here, the day he’d already booked ahead despite it being a real hole-in-the-corner coffee shop, where it was always relatively empty no matter what time you went, where bookings were practically non-existent, and he hadn’t even known if Steve would be free or not because he was going to ask him a week from the day so as to not give away the significance of the day.

He hadn't known whether he'd still manage to stay sober in the time between the booking and when he'd booked it, but it was nothing if not great incentive.

He would’ve been up early, for once being awake before Steve because of his alarm and not because he just hadn’t slept at all. He’d wear slacks and a polo, that blue one that Pepper liked on him, and he’d show up at Steve’s door just to see the look on his face when Steve saw that Tony was actually functioning without coffee. Steve would probably have bragged the night before, something along the lines of “ _don’t worry about me forgetting, Shellhead – I’ll knock on your door before you’re even out of bed,”_ so now Tony would wait for his eyebrows to raise before saying, “ _sorry, did I wake you up, old man?”_.

The place wouldn’t be open for another couple hours at least, so Steve would invite Tony inside and they would chat, maybe grab a snack because Steve always woke up with a rumbling stomach.

Everything about it would serve to remind Tony just what he was holding onto sobriety for.

And now the lights in the workshop were dimmed and he was sitting on the cot with his back against the wall, watching the seconds tick by until they indicated that midnight had come. He’d put on his best game face for both Carol and Henry, and then Rhodey when Carol had evidently talked to him, every time they had called asking if he wanted company, if he wanted to go out, if he wanted one of them over. It was lucky that they didn’t video call – he couldn’t be sure his face wouldn’t give his desolation away, not to people so close to him.

There was a single glass of whiskey placed in front of him, between his two legs folded at the knees, so his hands dangled between them as he leaned back against the cold concrete wall. It didn’t twinkle or shine in the dim light, its half visibility similar to that of the monsters in his nightmares. 

Tony stared at it, his eyes focusing and zoning out. He knew, if he turned the lights back up, that Steve would be standing in the corner, or sitting in Tony’s chair, or leaning with his arms crossed against one of the benches. He’d be looking at Tony with that same disappointment he’d looked at him with all those times, and Tony couldn’t look at that without feeling the strangling weight of his guilt weighing on his chest on the arc reactor, pushing in until he couldn’t breathe.

Without a coherent thought, his hand reached out and grabbed the glass. It was cool against his lips, the scent as familiar to him as the armour was beneath his fingers.

He downed it in a single swallow.

* * *

The next few weeks or days or months were some of the haziest of Tony’s life, and that included the 90s. There were some brief moments of clarity that he quickly snuffed out with another bottle, and after a while they too disappeared.

It was so easy, falling back into his old habits. The armour was locked off – he’d made that decision the day he’d decided to become sober. But the part of him that wanted to fly realised it could do so elsewhere. Such as bungee jumping.

To say that bungee jumping while drunk wasn’t the best idea was yet another understatement.

He paid an obscene amount (he thought it obscene but actually had no idea how much it was) to book a private session, to keep the whole thing quiet, to not blab about his drunken state, etc. The jump itself wasn’t nothing special, really; he’d done more adrenaline-pumping things as Iron Man. But there was something rather calming about the prospect of falling. And he wasn’t breaking the rules or crossing the line: he wasn’t operating the suit with alcohol in his system.

Was it worth the trouble and yelling he’d received from absolutely everyone? He had no idea.

And then came the casual sex. He’d never been a real fan, always getting his greatest pleasure from pleasuring another he loved. But now it was yet another form of release, another way to avoid the hard stare of Captain America as it bore down on him at the most inopportune moments.

There’d been a girl, practically climbing into his lap at the bar he’d been drowning himself at, whose neck he was now trailing a ribbon of heated kisses down. It was soft and slender, smelling of perfume and sweat, and Tony touched her like he’d once touched Steve’s shield.

She had brought him to the hotel she was staying at, right next to the bar. She’d mentioned more details, about herself and her life and her business in the city, but Tony only remembered the way her lips had looked shaping the words. Marissa, her name was. He knew that much, and that was all he needed to know to shout every time her hands trailed across his stomach, nails scraping across the soft skin.

“Shirt stays on,” was all he managed to gasp out before she planted her mouth over his.

“Mmm-hmm,” she replied, moving her hands farther down to his belt buckle.

It slid off with a slowness that Tony wasn’t feeling, and he trailed his hand over the back of her slinky dress to show her that, moving to find the zipper. It was smooth under his fingers as they gripped at her.

She unzipped his fly, shoving his pants down, and Tony shuffled to help her. They were gasping against each other, still standing upright in the hallway just inside the door. Marissa moved her mouth off of Tony’s, and he let out a low moan at the loss of contact before a very different noise keened out of his throat as it licked its way down his neck.

His eyes flew open, and he suddenly stiffened, tensing to the point where Marissa stopped and looked up at him. Steve was standing there, but he wasn’t looking at Tony.

Instead, he was very adamantly focusing on the room just beside them, jaw clenching and arms crossed tight against him chest. He was in full uniform this time, biceps bulging in the uniform.

“I—I can’t—I can’t do this,” he stuttered, tongue relearning how to form words. “I’m sorry, I—I need to go.”

With that, he yanked his trousers back up, hastily doing them up as he stumbled back to the door, fumbling with the doorknob. He didn’t listen to either of the voices shouting to him from behind. He didn’t even know if Steve was really calling to him or if it was a figment of his imagination.

Hell, Steve himself was a figment of his imagination.

The final strike was the day he showed up to a board meeting slurring his words and smelling of a brewery. He couldn’t truly recall whether he’d gotten drunk from his office, or had shown up already drunk.

He’d walked in and seen the eight or ten or sixteen board members sitting with their pressed suits and shining, bald heads, and their bulging bellies threatening their shirt buttons, and he’d lost it. There was something about the fact that Steve was dead and they weren’t, these _miserable_ , _nasty men_ , that had set off a ball of fire beneath Tony’s feet, and he’d lunged at the nearest one, slamming the wheely chair back against the wall and holding him there with a hand on his chest and the other over his throat, screaming and swearing.

Pepper had called security.

It was why he was here now, nine days later, without a drop of alcohol in his body. He hadn’t been drinking long enough for the cold turkey withdrawal process to be fatal, which was what SHIELD had made him do when Pepper had called Rhodey and Rhodey had called Jan, currently the sole leader of the Avengers. Not that he would know.

“Tony,” Pepper began, twisting her fingers in her lap. She sat ramrod straight, back as straight as the desk between the two of them. “We need to talk about this.”

She held her hand up when Tony opened his mouth, and he closed it quietly, resisting the urge to lean back on his chair like a petulant teenager sent to the principal’s office.

“You’ve gone _way_ off the rails,” she began. “And I get it. I know what he meant to you. But that shit with the board? They’re making some loud demands, and the most popular is that you stand down.”

Pepper sighed, kneading the ridge between her eyes, and all at once Tony saw how tired she looked. She opened her eyes, looking at him directly.

“I didn’t come to see you this last week or so because I’ve been dealing with the fallout from this mess,” she told him frankly. There was no blame in her words; she spoke matter-of-fact. “The one thing they’ll agree to is that you go through rehab, grief therapy maybe, if you want to take back your position at the company. It’ll only be a month or two, max.”

She looked at him pleadingly.

Tony swallowed. “Where?” he asked, voice rasping.

Pepper blinked. At some point in the conversation she’d leaned forward, and now she moved back slightly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She cleared her throat. “It’s called Good Samaritan Psychiatric Institution,” she said. “I know it sounds like some religious place where they try to exorcise you to get the devil out or whatever, but we checked it out and they’re legit. You’d go in, get a psych eval, and then basically _rest_. They let you have access to computers and books and things, so you won’t be too bored. We’ll visit you as often as you’re allowed—”

Her voice broke off suddenly, and then her gaze pierced through Tony’s numbness and held him frozen within its blue depths.

“Jan told me what you were saying, that night the building collapsed and you were trapped under the rubble. She told me you were hallucinating Steve, that you were practically suicidal. I don’t know if asking you to do it for yourself will work, but please, do it for those of us who care about you and want you getting better instead of losing two friends at once.”

It was probably a testament to Tony’s current mental state that he agreed so easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure the quote is from a comic in the War of the Realms event but I can't remember exactly.
> 
> Thanks for reading!!! Let me know what you think~
> 
> Hmu on [tumblr](https://fanfictiongreenirises.tumblr.com/).


	3. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony goes to a mental hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mentions of alcoholism, some symptoms of withdrawal I guess. nothing major.

Steve Rogers hovered in the background as they loaded the car. He was fairly certain that none of them – especially Tony – could see him: every time Tony had spotted him before, he would startle slightly, staring at Steve. It always made him feel uncomfortable, awkward and guilty at the sight of his friend’s face crumbling into a ball of misery and guilt at the sight of him. It was also almost definitely his fault that Tony had begun drinking and…acting out to the extent he had. 

Rhodey and Happy were loading the car, checking off from a list Pepper had stuck onto a clipboard. One of Tony’s medium sized suitcases was currently in the trunk, accompanied by a briefcase that was filled with paperwork rather than the armour. There was a small bag of road snacks inside, filled with all sorts of chocolate and lollies, and bags of chips. Steve hoped they wouldn’t forget water.

Neither man looked happy at this turn of events, worry clouding their expressions with every movement. They were doing this because Tony was so agreeable to it, because he’d fallen off the wagon _hard_ and seemed disinclined to climb back on, maintaining a state of inebriation at all times. Had Tony not been so bad, they probably would’ve fought against the board.

Steve shared their displeasure, and yet he too was conflicted. Before the events of the last few weeks, he would’ve wholeheartedly agreed that Tony should be allowed to stay at home surrounded by people who loved and cared for him, allowed to grieve and mourn and move on, and allowed to finally realise that the Steve he was ‘hallucinating’ was actually Steve, and not a figment of his imagination.

The issue was that Steve himself had no idea whether he was just a ghost or if there was something else at play. But he wouldn’t let his state of being affect Tony’s obviously deteriorating one. Tony wasn’t handling things at all, and Steve wouldn’t stop him from getting the help he needed. Even if it made him uneasy to send him off to a mental institution.

Things these days may have improved in the field of psychology, but he doubted he’d ever get the stories of asylums out of his head. There had been one near where he had lived, and fanciful stories had always circulated around it. Hell, as a child, it had been one of the biggest feats of accomplishment to get inside the asylum and bring back a fruit from one of the apple trees in front. It was the fast lane to popularity and fame, but despite temptation, Steve had never been strong enough to climb the fence.

Pepper walked in, on the phone with someone. Steve could see, from just a glimpse of her face, that she wasn’t particularly fond of this idea herself, which didn’t ease his own doubts. He’d learned long ago that Pepper usually had the best instincts.

“Tony’s coming,” she told them. “He’s saying goodbyes to the team and getting the last of his things.”

She squeezed the bridge of her nose, letting out a long breath.

Happy moved forward. “You should take a break, Pep,” he told her, rubbing her upper arms soothingly. Steve wholeheartedly agreed. She’d been looking frayed around the edges for as long as Steve had been wandering around as a ghost, but since Tony had started drinking again, there were deep bags under her eyes that no amount of concealer would hide.

“I will when there’s time.” Pepper smiled at him softly. “And after we get Tony out.”

“You don’t trust this place?” Rhodey asked, arms crossed as he leaned against the car. It was one of Tony’s – he preferred to travel in his own custom made vehicles.

Pepper shrugged, her arms lifting slightly. “I don’t know if it’s what’s best for Tony, but maybe it’ll help. It’ll stop him from drinking, at least. And I’ve gotten paperwork that gives us permission to transfer him after a month if we want to, which is somewhat reassuring. I went over it with my lawyers – they can’t hold him there if we say we want him out.”

“You ready to go, kids?” a loud voice called from the door, and Tony walked towards them in full three-piece suit and matching sunglasses. His whole outfit was probably equal to Steve’s net worth.

“Yeah, man,” Rhodey said, not even blinking at his friend’s ensemble.

Tony whooped, getting in the passenger seat. “Road trip! Hell yeah!”

Steve didn’t know if Tony was on something or if he was just tipsy. He sighed, getting into the car and settling in the middle seat between Rhodey and Pepper.

“Why does he get shotgun,” Pepper grumbled. “I want to sit next to my husband.”

“I can drive,” Rhodey offered, and was immediately met with a loud chorus of _NO’s_. Steve wanted very much to learn of Colonel Rhodes’ driving. He’d have to ask once… Well.

Steve had no idea what had actually happened to him. He’d been hit in the chest with the beam, and the second it touched him, it’d felt like he was having his flesh melted off. He had no idea how long he’d writhed under the hot pain, the world still dark, almost pitch black, when he’d blinked his eyes open, which had sent waves of panic down his spine. He’d sat upright, distantly questioning the lack of pain, to find that when he had sat up, his body – physical body, he corrected himself – hadn’t. It’d lain there, still and grotesque. It was covered from the chest down, so he couldn’t see what the damage was, but the unnatural stillness of his own face had been disturbing. He’d left at once.

Every day since then, he’d followed around the Avengers and tried to get their attention. He’d spent the most time around friends, following Sam as he went to the group meeting and wincing at every mention of himself, at the raw grief he’d heard in Sam’s voice; he’d gone to see Sharon and found her standing in front of the giant monument they’d erected in his honour, staring at it with dull eyes, walking over to the smaller gravestone they’d given him - under his civilian name - and leaving a bouquet of flowers there; he’d found Clint at the archery range, shooting arrows with a ferocity that’d made the hair on the back of Steve’s neck stand upright. 

And then he’d found Tony, in the workshop, bleary eyes staring at the armour with a screwdriver in hand and a disaster just waiting to happen. Steve had moved around the shop, staring at Tony in a way he’d never been able to when alive, and it had made him flush slightly but bolder than he normally was. He’d crouched in front of the bench Tony was working at with the chestplate, listening as he muttered to himself as Tony was prone to do, and put his elbows on the bench and rested his head on his arms, gazing at Tony’s moving hands.

Tony had fallen asleep there as well, with a wrench in his hand and an open bottle of what was thankfully water beside his head. Steve had tried a few times to grab the lid and screw it shut, but his hand kept brushing through it. When he finally slumped against the bench, it being one of the few objects in the workshop his body met, it had shifted slightly, causing Tony to stir. He’d glanced up, and for a moment, it was as though Tony was looking into his eyes, actually seeing him. 

Steve’s face had broken into a wide grin. “You can see me, right, Shellhead?” he’d said. _Finally_ , he’d thought. _Someone who’ll work this out._

But Tony’s face had twisted into horror. He’d dropped the wrench; it’d let out a sharp _clack_ as it’d fallen to the floor. Tony’s body had spasmed, as though it wanted to move but couldn’t, tears waterfalling down his face as he’d stared at Steve without speaking.

“I’m sorry,” he’d whispered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, _I’m sorry_ —”

“Hey, Tony, no,” Steve had begun, moving forward, intending to place his hands on Tony’s shoulders and hug him, tell him there was nothing he needed to be sorry for. That he was just glad Tony was okay. That he wouldn’t change his decision for anything.

But Tony had scrambled backwards so fast he’d almost fallen right out of the chair. As it was, he broke his fall with a quick movement of his legs, and Steve had felt a distant sense of pride at his training kicking in even now. “Please,” Tony had gasped, words barely sounding. “‘ _m sorry, ‘m sorry…”_ He’d stayed on the floor, curled up into a little ball rocking back and forth.

Needless to say, Tony had been somewhat a wreck because of Steve’s death, and for some unfathomable reason, the only person to still be able to see Steve. So Steve had stuck by Tony, trying to make contact, to get him to see that Steve was probably alive. In the back of his mind, always, was the thought that perhaps letting Tony move on and get past Steve would be better; he didn’t even know if he was actually alive or just waiting to pass on to the next world.

But he was an Avenger, and if he still felt alive, then chances were, there was something not right about his death.

So Steve sat in the middle seat, following Tony to the asylum. He listened to Tony hum along to the radio as Happy drove and observed Pepper and Rhodey playing chess on a board that was settled around Steve’s upper thighs and nether regions.

* * *

The institution looked like his childhood home, was the first thought Tony had at the sight of the building. It was old, stony, and grey, and the front exhibited an immaculate garden. There were vines tracing the building but done in a way that reflected old money. A few statues stood outside, two guarding the gate – wrought iron with spikes on top – with little plaques that Tony didn’t bother to read. No doubt they would be of its founders.

The others in the car were chatting pleasantly, but Tony could sense an undercurrent of tension that had crept over them the closer they’d gotten to their destination. He’d seen the glances between the three; none of them thought this was a good idea, despite how convinced Pepper had appeared when she’d come to him.

Pepper – who had driven the second half of their journey – was chewing her lip, sitting there with the car parked. The other two in the back seemed just as reluctant to get out. 

She turned to Tony. “You don’t have to do this. I know what I said, but there’ll be some way to get the board off your back—”

Tony gave her what he hoped was a decent smile. “Pep, it’ll be fine. I’ve been in rehab before – this’ll be same. And it isn’t really a choice: they’re holding my suit and my company hostage.” _And they’re all I have left_ , he didn’t say.

“You have all of us right here,” she said to him. “They won’t let us see you for the first week, but we’ll come the second we can, and if we see _anything_ going on that looks fishy, we’re pulling you out.”

Tony gave a slow nod, and she opened her door, leaving the air-conditioned air of the car.

Rhodey and Happy followed more slowly, Happy grabbing Tony’s suitcase from the trunk while Tony took the briefcase. He glanced at himself in the sidemirror; he looked as though he were heading to some business meeting instead of being booked into a mental hospital.

The inside was quiet, eerie. There was a bone deep coolness to the place, as though no sunlight could truly penetrate it. Perhaps it had once been a residential building, for rich people no less, because some part of Tony expected Howard to come bustling out of a door at any minute. The floors were wooden, a Persian rug laid out stretching down the long hall. It had plenty of width – enough to fit an ambulance stretcher with people on either side, Tony noted. There were flowerpots scattered here and there, all thriving, a long table that sat on one side and held a candelabra, polished to be an adequate replacement for the lack of mirrors.

A woman walked forward to meet them, having seemingly appeared out of nowhere (Tony’s mind was apparently still not up to its usual standard). She wore a stiff black pencil skirt and a plain white blouse tucked into it, legs covered with stockings and feet inside practical flats. Her hair was in a ponytail, diminishing Tony’s expectation of a tight high bun.

“You must be Mr Stark,” she said in lieu of greeting. “I’m Doctor Merrilow. Please come this way.” 

Rhodey and Tony exchanged a glance that said, _she seems nice_ , while behind them, Happy and Pepper shared one that said, _she seems evil._

Dr Merrilow led them into a small office. There was a desk sitting by the large window, which she went and sat behind. She gestured to Tony to be seated in front, and after a nonverbal conversation (or rather, fight) between the other three, Pepper took the chair beside him and Happy and Rhodey went to the couch beside the bookshelf at the other end of the room, casing the joint with suspicious eyes.

“I’ve been informed of your condition, Mr Stark,” Merrilow said none too delicately. She was middle aged, a few strands of white hair showing here and there. Tony had never heard of her before Pepper had given him her files. “Upon being admitted, you will have time to adjust to your new conditions, so they have less of an impact on your symptoms. You will then undergo a psychological evaluation, after which you will be either be put under observation for some time, depending on the results, or you will begin treatment immediately.

“You must sign here, and here. Ms Potts, please sign here as a witness that this was done with free will.”

With a glance at Tony, Pepper took the pen from him and signed her name. 

“Wonderful,” Merrilow said, snatching the papers back. She put them in a drawer, and they heard as the lock clicked when she closed it.

Tony kept farewells with his family short; he would not, under any circumstance, treat this as though he were saying a proper goodbye. He hugged each of them, nodded along to their promises of visiting, and then followed Merrilow inside so he wouldn’t have to watch them walk away.

* * *

Tony was led to yet another room branching off from the hallway they’d first entered in, and told to strip. This room was completely bare except for a shelf at chest height, which spanned the whole room. He did as asked, changing into the robes that were folded on the shelf. They were similar to hospital scrubs; light grey in colour and papery, paired with a thin grey robe and soft shoes that had no laces. The robe itself tied together with adjustable buttons.

Merrilow had taken the suitcase with his belongings before he’d been led into the room. He’d known it would happen right from the start, which was why he’d fitted himself with sensors under his skin to call the armour to him. It would travel here from his workshop in the Mansion, which would take over an hour, but it was better than nothing. The suitcase itself held a few items of clothing, a toothbrush, a razor. The bare essentials on the off chance he was allowed to keep them.

Tony tugged the elastic in the pants tighter, fitting it over the buttons sewed inside for this purpose. Glancing at his three-piece suit that he’d left in a pile on the floor, he opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. 

With night falling, it sent shivers down his spine. There were dark shadows around every strange corner, and Tony didn’t like the smell of the place. It was an odd thing to be picky about, but something about it set his nerves on edge. He shoved his hands inside the pockets of his robes in an effort to stop himself from crossing them over his chest. 

Instead of Merrilow, a tall, lean man was waiting for Tony as he exited the room. His hair was dark, shaved to his scalp, and he had a bony look, as though he hadn’t been fed enough growing up.

“Mr Stark,” he said, face neutral and unsmiling. “Follow me.”

“Do I get to know your name?” Tony asked after a minute of silence. They’d been wandering through various doors, still without catching a glimpse of another living person in the building.

“Wally,” he said shortly.

Tony nodded, despite Wally not being able to see him. “You enjoy work, Wally?” he said conversationally.

“Yes.” Wally stopped in front of a door. “Your tour of the institute begins from here. You are not permitted in the wing we are currently in. You’ll be wise to remember that.”

He opened the door and gestured for Tony to step inside before entering himself and locking the door behind him with a key chain attached to his ID.

Inside, they were in yet another passageway. This one was completely bare, wooden floors echoing their footsteps as they walked along. The only door was at the end, which was also locked. This one was done up by three deadbolts and a keypad, which Tony did his best to memorise as Wally did _his_ best to shield it with his body.

As the door opened, Tony could hear voices for the first time since entering the place. They were hushed, but definitely conversations. Wally led him closer.

“This is the common room,” he said in his bland voice. “You’ll spend the majority of your time here with the other patients if your psych eval goes well.”

Tony took it all in. It wasn’t the worst ‘common room’ he’d been in: there were at least six couches with oversized cushions, in bright colours to give the room a cheery look. In between them were coffee tables – rounded edges, no drawers – with magazines and newspapers stacked in the space underneath, while on top they had cards and board games. Bookshelves lined the walls, some with spaces that were evidently for the items atop the coffee tables, while the rest were books.

There was a fair amount of space, too, for a mental hospital that prided itself for selecting few patients in order to maximise the time and treatment quality.

“You’ll be required to interact with at least two people every day,” Wally told him. “We currently house fifteen patients, so you should be fine with that.”

Tony nodded distractedly. “Is that a computer?” he asked. Because there, at the edge of the room and half hidden from his vision by the TV, was a desktop computer. It was ancient, with a giant cube monitor that Tony hadn’t seen since before his parents’ death.

“Yes,” Wally replied.

“Are patients permitted to use it?” he questioned.

“That is dependent upon your psych eval.”

Wally took him from the common room through another door to what he called the dining room. It was a hall, one that had probably been used in the mansion’s earlier days as a small ballroom, and was crammed with five long tables, benches on either side for seating.

Tony’s eyes rose. “Your website said the maximum number of patients you have at once is twenty,” he commented.

Wally ignored him, moving along as though Tony hadn’t spoken. “The kitchen is behind that door,” he indicated to a white double door that had two small slits for windows, “where you are not permitted to go. All your food will be served here, and it is up to you to ensure you show up on time. Exceptions may be made based on your—”

“Psych eval, got it.” Tony’s eyes fell upon a small piano by the far wall, where the roof curved upwards and the light came in through the giant window. “Do people play?” he asked, indicating towards it with a jerk of his head.

“On occasion.” Wally sniffed. “Come, we have little time.”

Tony took that to mean that _he_ had little time, because Tony? Tony had nothing _but_ time now.

They went through the huge ornamental doors through to a carpeted area. The lights above were turned on, a little chandelier right above where Tony stood. Its light scattered across the place, but the dimness made it feel all the more haunting.

There was a single door that led outside. Tony stared in appreciation at the perfectly maintained gardens, hedges that were shaped like various animals. There was also what appeared to be a gazebo further along.

Wally whipped out another key and unlocked the door. He and Tony stepped outside, Tony breathing in the fresh air. Little fairy lights had been strung up, giving a magical illusion to the whole place. He could hear bubbling water, perhaps from a fountain.

“We can come out here?” he questioned. It wouldn’t be so bad if he could be amongst this beauty, this serenity.

“Dependent on your evaluation.”

Tony swallowed a sigh, trailing his fingers over a bush. There were statues spotted around here and there, but in this light he couldn’t tell who they were, or read the plaque that they each possessed. He walked over to the nearest one, tracing his fingers over the writing.

“Please refrain from touching the statues,” Wally said from behind him. “They are worth quite an amount.”

“Sorry, Wally, just trying to read the writing.”

“This is Socrates,” Wally told him, walking up to stand beside him and gaze above at the figure. “This is the Garden of Solitude – all the statues are of philosophers.”

He walked over to another one nearby. It was of a bearded man, seated with parchment resting on one leg. He had laurel wreathes atop his head, and cloth draped over one arm while the rest of his upper body was nude.

Tony recognised him at once. “Parmenides.” 

Wally turned to him, giving him a look that clearly read _I didn’t know you were educated_.

Tony let out a huff of laughter. “I went to a rich kid boarding school, of course I know the classics. It’s just that half these guys look the same in this light.”

Wally didn’t respond, instead taking them back the way they’d come. Tony resisted the urge to ask for more time outside – out here he felt less trapped than inside the unfamiliar, creaky mansion. Hopefully good behaviour was all that was required of him to be allowed access. The halls were silent as they walked, and Tony was on the brink of zoning out when he saw a flash of white lab coat and chalky face on a staircase just before it vanished.

“Who was that?” he asked, nodding his head in the direction of the stranger.

“A doctor,” Wally responded shortly. Tony sighed loudly.

They were in a corridor now, its slightly more cramped passageway the only thing indicating that they’d moved away from the main branch.

“These are all the sleeping chambers. Yours will be temporary until your evaluation has been made, after which you will be moved.” Wally paused in front of a door, opening it with a flourish of his hand and gesturing for Tony to enter. 

The first thing Tony saw were the bars on the window. The rest of the room was incredibly bare – there was a wrought iron single bed in one corner, screwed to the floor. A small desk was by the window, the sole item on it being a vase of plastic flowers. It, too, was screwed to the floor.

“Where’s the bathroom?” Tony asked, taking in the room he’d be staying in for however long it was until he was ‘evaluated’.

“There are unisex bathrooms down this hall.” Wally walked on and Tony followed. There were two doors at the end of the hall, both labelled ‘WASHROOM’.

A staircase led downstairs to what Tony assumed was a basement. “What’s that?”

“Doctor’s chambers and medical labs,” Wally told him. “Only those in the worst conditions go in there for treatment. You, obviously, are not permitted to go down those stairs for any reason unless escorted.”

Wally was walking back to where Tony’s room was. “That is the end of our tour. Unless you are exceptionally dim, you will have no trouble remembering where everything is. I would suggest turning in for the night now.”

And with that, he left.

Tony glanced at his wrist to check the time and let out a curse at the sight his bare flesh. He looked out the window; judging by the light, it was definitely past dinnertime.

He could already feel his fingers itching for a drink, for the feel of a tumbler in his hands.

Just as Tony had made his way to the window with its depressing bars, he heard a click behind him, the sound of someone turning a key. He was locked in for the night.

Tony threw himself onto the bed, wincing at the thin mattress. The moon was hidden behind the clouds, leaving the room dark. Tony felt his fingers playing with the fabric of the shirt they’d provided him with, an urge to undo it and let the light of the arc reactor fill up the room. But he didn’t know whether they had surveillance devices here; the later they got to see the arc reactor, the better.

But that put another thought in his head – surveillance devices. Everywhere else he’d been to had always had at least some primitive form of a recording device. He looked around the room at the obvious areas, frowning thoughtfully. The bareness of the room was helpful – there weren’t any nooks or crannies to hide in.

He went over to the flowers, taking them out of their plastic vase and turning them over. After a moment, he shook them over the bed, seeing if anything would fall out or off. Nothing did. The vase was empty too. A cursory glance and feel of the underside of the table showed that it, too, was clear.

The only thing left in the room was the bed. Tony felt down each of the legs, the ribs holding up the mattress. There was nothing. If they’d put a bug inside one of the legs, there would be almost no way for Tony to get it out without a screwdriver.

He took out the pillow from its case, squeezing it to see if there was anything inside the pillow itself. He did the same with the mattress, snorting at the potential princess and the pea scenario.

There was nothing. He would need to find some way to take the legs of the bed apart. Glancing around the room – he should really have snuck in at least a bobby pin – he chewed on his lip as he contemplated the resources he currently possessed. He put his thumbnail as far as it would go into the large screw, testing how tight it was. He moved around to each leg, and it wasn’t until the third that he found it loose.

He twisted it around with his thumb, and when it was undone, a smile ghosted his face. The fact that this leg, by the window in such an awkward position, was undone, meant that the leg in the corner was also loose, and the spot with the highest potential for containing listening devices.

Tony crawled under the bed, the robe pressed to his mouth so he wouldn’t inhale dust and sneeze. He reached out with his hand, locating the screw and not even needing to do anything other than spin it around to get it off. And then came the hard part. 

He twisted around so he was lying on his back, and he lifted the bed upwards. It was lucky he’d removed the mattress – as it was, he was straining to lift it, particularly after the few weeks he'd slacked off training. He bit his mouth to keep in any grunts and wheezes he made.

Bringing up a knee, he held the bed on an angle, and reached into the leg with one hand. It was surprisingly wide. He grabbed the flowers where he’d left them beside him, and used it to poke around, going in as far as he could.

And then something fell out. Praying it wasn’t a real bug, Tony turned his head. There, beside him on the floor, was a small black device. 

Still holding up the bed with his knee, Tony took it in his hand and examined it. He didn’t want to turn it off – that would alert them immediately that he’d found it – and he couldn’t do anything fancy like a loop, so the only solution left was muffling it so that nothing sounded. The only spare cloth in the room was his undershirt. Grimacing, Tony took off the robe and the shirt, then ripped pieces off the bottom of his undershirt so it fell to just above his belly button. He then carefully wrapped it in the fabric, hoping it wasn’t too sensitive, and placed it inside the hollow leg, removing his knee slowly and shifting the bed back to its normal position.

Heart pumping slightly harder, he screwed the legs to the floor once more and crawled out from under the bed, rubbing at his leg where the ribs of the bed had dug into it. Standing up slowly, he positioned the mattress back onto the bed, throwing the pillow and then himself onto it.

Sleep was just reaching for him when he spotted a familiar red, white, and blue shape in front of him. Smiling slightly, he outstretched one hand for Steve. If this was the last time he saw him, then he’d at least say his farewells.

“Hey, soldier,” he said with a tired grin.

“Tony,” Steve said with what appeared to be a sigh of relief. “Tony, be careful, okay? Don’t trust anyone, don’t trust anything, don’t—”

Tony snorted. It was like he was following a script, reading dot points he'd memorised of important bits of information he needed to impart onto Tony next time he was acknowledged. “What, don’t eat for the next month?”

Steve rubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t like this place,” he said.

Tony shrugged. “Don’t worry, Steve. I’ve been to rehab before. They suck, but they get the job done. And in this case, I really am fully hallucinating my dead friend, so…”

“But you’re not! I’m real, Tony! I’m…I think I’m alive!” 

“Don’t.” Tony drew in a ragged breath. This was the most sober he'd been in a long time, and he wanted nothing more than the numbness of a bottle. “Don’t do this to me, Steve. It’s bad enough that you’re gone, don’t try to convince me otherwise. I’ll go even crazier than I already am.”

Steve looked as though he was going to say something more; he opened his mouth.

But Tony interrupted him before he could. “I’ll miss you when you stop appearing,” Tony said, smiling a sad smile as sleep finally claimed him.

* * *

A sharp bell pierced through Tony’s foggy dreams, evaporating them before he could even think to grasp at their fading wisps. He sat up, rubbing at his eyes and squinting at the window. Tony had never been one of those people who – while mostly sober – forgot where they were when they woke up. Nevertheless, it was still disappointing to open his eyes and see the bare white walls and steel bars on the window.

Tony went to open the door, but it was still locked. Hopefully they’d let him get his psych evaluation over and done with today. He didn’t want to be here any longer than he had to.

Some part of him, however, liked the lack of responsibility and expectation here. Here he was mostly anonymous – he’d see how deep that truly went when he met the other patients and the doctors – and no one seemed to really care that he was Iron Man and should get back to being Iron Man. Hell, they barely recognised him as _Tony Stark_.

There was a sharp rap against Tony’s door, and moments later, the sound of a key unlocking the door. Tony stood up straight, buttoning up the robe.

It wasn’t Wally who opened the door. 

“Good morning,” said the short red-haired girl. “Please follow me to see Dr Croirac.”

Her name tag said “Belinda”, at which Tony raised a metaphoric eyebrow. He hasn’t seen that name on anyone younger than his mother would’ve been now.

They walked down the passage, passing other doors that patients slept in. Tony was disappointed to find that the place was entirely empty; he would’ve thought that there’d be people coming out of rooms for breakfast.

Belinda led him upstairs. It was slightly colder up here, as though there were drafts coming in through the cracks of the windows. From what Tony could tell, the stairs they had just used weren’t the main staircase – perhaps a servants’ entrance, judging by the narrowness.

Tony followed Belinda through a door she opened with her key – there must’ve been at least twenty on the keychain, but somehow, she managed to pick the right one out instantly. Inside was the typical office of a psychologist. There was a large wooden desk at the very end of the room, facing the door. In front of it was a single chair, bright orange in colour; there were only two chairs in the room.

There was a bookshelf on the right wall as Tony entered. It had a few psychology books on it, as expected, as well as a curious number of plants, half of which were dead. 

“Mr Stark,” said a voice.

Tony turned to face Dr Croirac. He was a short man, with a small beard that came down to form a sharp point. His face was friendly – his eyes had wrinkles from laughter, and he greeted Tony with a smile that didn’t seem forced. He was wearing a white lab coat, which struck Tony as rather strange.

“Dr Croirac,” Tony said in response, extending a hand to shake.

Croirac did so, with a fairly firm grip. “Please, have a seat,” he said, indicating the bright orange chair.

Tony sat in silence. Croirac would ask questions when he was ready to, and Tony would answer the ones he wanted to.

“From your file, I know you were sober for almost a year, and then began drinking like there was no tomorrow, as well as…acting out.”

People kept referring to his behaviour as 'acting out', which was endlessly amusing to Tony. It made him feel like a delinquent teenager. “All true,” Tony said, leaning back in the chair.

“It’s also noted that your close friend and co-leader, Steve Rogers, also known as Captain America, was killed a few weeks prior to this.” Croirac peered at Tony over his glasses.

“Yes,” Tony said stiffly. 

“Mr Stark…”

* * *

From the back of the room, Steve stood and surveyed the office. It was too…old fashioned. Ornate. He didn’t like it. Tony should’ve stayed in the Mansion, gone to one of SHIELD’s psychologists, and been surrounded by people who could genuinely take care of him and had no ulterior motives. People who understood what he was going through.

His conversation the night before hadn’t been quite as bad as Steve had been anticipating, but not particularly good, either. He needed Tony to understand that he wasn’t a hallucination, but once they began the procedures on him, maybe he really would stop seeing Steve.

Steve leaned down to get a closer look at some of the titles on the bottom shelf. There were dead flies lying there, and he grimaced at the sight. _You’d think they’d at least dust here on occasion._

Some of these books weren’t the type he’d ever seen at bookstores. _Neighbour On My Roof_ and _Scared by the City_ were definitely not titles he would’ve associated with practicing psychologists, but there was the _Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 5 th Edition, _which Steve was relieved (and surprised) to see was the current edition.

He mentally added _Men and Politicians_ to his reading list. 

“From your medical records, I see you’ve been to a fair number of mental health specialists. Were you ever diagnosed with anything?”

“What, the list doesn’t say?” Tony let out a humourless bark of laughter.

Steve didn’t know if this was a conversation he should be listening in on, but he didn’t want to leave Tony’s side. Besides, he already knew that Tony had PTSD – it’d been one of the things they’d talked about in that time when Iron Man was still his secret identity; even though Tony as himself had never talked about it with Steve, he’d known and tried to be there for him as much as Tony had been for him.

“Depression. And PTSD after the whole kidnapping thing,” Tony said.

Steve blinked. _Depression?_ He shoved down his immediate reaction of _that can’t be right_ and tried to think back, back through all these years he’s known Tony, and come up with instances in time where Tony had displayed symptoms of depression.

From his discussions with Sam about mental health, he knew a fair few. He could easily see some in Tony. Withdrawing from those close to you. Dependency on alcohol and sedatives. Feelings of guilt and worthlessness. Sleep problems.

He sat down with a thump that no one heard, mind reeling.

“We believe in giving patients all the information regarding their wellbeing,” Croirac was saying when Steve tuned back in. “But some do not wish to be labelled.” 

“Trust me, I have no issue with labels,” Tony said flatly. “Am I going to live, doc?”

Croirac smiled obligingly. “We are going to place you under observation for the sake of following the DSM, but we will be giving you antidepressants. And something for your hallucinations. You'll also come in regularly for therapy sessions. Now here, it says that the medication you took previously…”

Steve’s ghostly presence was probably making Tony worse. Steve needed to stop hurting Tony. But Tony was still the only one who had seen Steve; there was a high chance that if he were to see that Steve wasn’t a hallucination, he might get better. If Steve could have a normal conversation with him, he could convince Tony that it wasn’t his fault. Tony could let go and move on.

“…this way. They’re excited to be meeting you.”

“They?” Tony asked.

“The other patients and doctors. They have only been told that there is a new patient. Forgive them if they seem overeager – we rarely see new people.”

Croirac’s words settled heavily in Steve’s stomach. He followed the doctor and Tony out the door, memorising as much of the building as he could. The night before, he hadn’t felt comfortable enough to leave Tony’s side at night to wander the halls and see what sort of an operation was in motion here, but tonight, perhaps…

* * *

Croirac led Tony to the common room, which, to his surprise, was filled with at least twenty people, over half of whom were patients, from the look of their outfits. They all glanced up when Croirac opened the door, some of them waving to him cheerfully while a few stared with suspicion.

“Tony, these are our doctors and nurses.” Croirac indicated to a group of men and women lined up on the outskirts of the room, hovering with drinks in hand. 

Tony smiled a greeting at the first one, shaking her hand.

A mousy-haired woman, arms stiff as they shook Tony’s. “Dr Palmer, lovely to meet you.”

“Dr Hackett,” said a voice, and Tony started a little as he came face to face with the same man that he’d seen on the stairs the previous day.

He nodded, shaking his hand. It was dry to the touch, and Tony wanted to give him moisturising tips.

The next in line was old and balding but possessed a firm handshake. “Dr Monver. I’ll be doing your physical check-ups, Mr Stark.”

“I’m Nurse Dufort, Mr Stark. I’ll be escorting you to your check-ups.” He looked much like Clint Barton, Tony thought with a homesick pang. 

“Betty Grant, Mr Stark.” She was a middle-aged lady, hair whitening. “You won’t see me very often, I’m afraid. I’m in charge of the kitchen.”

And then they left, giving Tony free access to the common area and the patients it held. Some part of him eased at the lack of doctors present. He scanned the room around for friendly faces – Tony Stark was many things, but he wasn’t shy.

Playing a heated game of _Snap!_ on the carpet by a large floor-length window were two young people, possibly teenagers. Both appeared to be in their twenties, no older than thirty. The girl was wearing a long, flowy skirt and loose blouse, and Tony had no idea why she wasn’t in the hospital garb the rest were dressed in. The boy opposite her, who had just slammed his hand atop the pile with lightning speed, had white hair, same as that of the elderly. 

“Hi,” Tony said as he approached. “Mind if I join you?”

“Go ahead,” the boy said as the girl nodded.

“I’m Tony.”

“Wanda,” the girl told him with a sweet smile. “This is my brother Peter.”

She had a noticeable Russian accent while Peter didn’t, Tony noted.

“So,” he said, sitting adjacent to both of them, facing the window, “what’re you in for?”

Peter scowled darkly. “For being at the wrong place at the wrong time. For being born with a father who isn’t well liked by the community. For—”

“Peter, enough,” Wanda said, soft exasperation. It seemed that she’d gone through this rant a number of times. “We’re technically under arrest. In court, our lawyer pleaded insanity, so we ended up here.”

“Alrighty,” Tony said, grinning widely. He loved making strange friends. “You’ll have to tell me what you did someday—or,” he added hastily at the glower Peter aimed at him, “what you were framed for.”

Wanda gave him a small smile, picking up all the cards and reshuffling. “Would you like to play poker, Tony?”

* * *

After a game or two, Wanda and Peter were led away for various sessions, and Tony found himself on the lookout for friends once more. There were about six or seven people left in the common room. Two were bunched together in one corner, a chessboard between them. There was one person on a couch with a romance novel in hand, halfway through what promised to be a ravishing tale of a Texas ranger’s whirlwind affair.

There was a man pacing the room, muttering under his breath. On occasion, he would pause and gesture frantically, as though he were explaining something, but there was no one there. Tony told himself he would stay away from him, but he knew he probably wouldn’t.

There was an old man in front of the fireplace – not lit, of course – who had a bundle of wool in his lap and was crocheting a beanie. Tony headed over to him.

“Hi there,” he said. “My name’s Tony.”

The man looked at him. “Jim,” he said roughly.

“Jim, huh?” Tony sat down on an armchair next to him. “My best friend’s name is Jim,” he said wistfully.

The man grunted slightly. “Solid name, Jim. M' grandfather was named Jim, and ‘is before him. I’ll prob’ly pass it on someday, if I ever escape this madhouse.”

Tony nodded slowly. “You have any kids?” he asked carefully. At least the man wasn’t knitting, he reasoned. Crochet needles weren’t as dangerous. 

“Nah,” Jim said. “‘o needs kids? All ‘ey do is suck up your money, your house, your life, ‘til all you’re left with is your goddamn name.”

“Fair enough,” Tony said. “Who’s that for?”

“Me wife,” Jim rumbled. “She’s ‘e only reason for me still bein’ 'ere.”

Tony was about to comment on sweet marriages, when Jim continued.

“M' granddaughter takes m' work and lays it out on 'er grave. She sends me photos. Here, look.” With that, Jim pulled out a little envelope from the pocket of his robes, taking out a glossy picture.

Tony leaned forward in his chair slightly, squinting at it. The image was blurry, showing a grassy gravestone. Atop it was a bouquet of bright yellow sunflowers, and underneath was a giant stack of knitting.

“That’s nice of her,” Tony said. “Your granddaughter, did you say?”

Jim nodded, going back to crocheting.

“So is she your…son’s daughter, your daughter’s daughter…?” Maybe Jim had something like dementia.

“She’s m' son’s daughter, but he ain’t m' son no more,” Jim said. “‘e’s the reason I’m ‘ere. Claimed I killed his mother. Kids these days... so ungrateful. Turn on you at every opportunity.”

“Did you?” Tony asked, bolder than he probably should be.

“Did I what?” Jim turned to him, and it was only then that Tony realised his eyes were a yellowish colour. He was held transfixed by them.

“Kill your wife,” he said haltingly. Maybe he should get intel on patients from other patients next time.

“She wasn’ m' wife no more,” Jim told him. “She was the devil. Her eyes would go all black at nigh’ and every time she opened her mou’, it was like a banshee.”

Tony frowned. “Why not get someone to examine her? A shaman, or a priest maybe?” _The Sorcerer Supreme_ , he added in his head.

Jim let out a roaring laugh, causing everyone in the room to turn their heads in their direction. “Don’ tell me ya a’tually believe tha’ mumbo jumbo?"

Tony shrugged. “If you think your wife’s possessed, then don’t you?”

“I didn’ say she were possessed, you nimwit! I said she was the devil itself!”

“Alright, alright.” Tony raised his arms. “Sorry for that misunderstanding.”

After that, he moved on. There was a woman in the corner tossing a ball at the wall and catching it when it bounced back. The carpeted floors meant that it made little noise, but Tony wondered when they would be allowed outside.

“Hi,” he said. It’d been a very long time since he’d had to introduce himself so many times in one day. “I’m Tony.”

“Hello Tony,” she said monotonously. “I’m Mavis.” The ball hit the wall at a steady rhythm.

Tony, finding it awkward to stand there beside her as she stared straight ahead, leaned against the window. “So, is it rude of me to ask people what they’re in for?” he said conversationally. “Haven’t been to one of these before.”

“What, a loony bin?” Mavis let out a loud chuckle. “No, you can ask. Some just might swear at you, but we don’t have anything to stab you with.”

Tony laughed. “Reassuring,” he said. “So, Mavis. What’re you in for?” 

_Thunk, thump, slap. Thunk, thump, slap._ “I drank the Kool-Aid.”

“That’s mysterious. You like that with all the boys?”

“Only the ones I don’t know. What’re you in for, Tony? I’ve been listening to you going around – it’s not my fault; you’re very loud – but you haven’t mentioned it once.” 

Tony shrugged. “My best friend was killed and I kept hallucinating him, and then I fell off the wagon and started drinking again.” 

“You’ll recover,” Mavis told him frankly. “At least you didn’t kill the best friend.”

Tony swallowed back a wave of nausea. “He’s still dead, though. Doesn’t change that.”

“Trust me, prison wouldn’t be a good look on you.”

“You’ve been?” _Why was everyone here a criminal?_

“Nope,” Mavis responded, popping the ‘P’. “I’ve seen Orange Is the New Black.”

Tony let out a bark of laugher. This was the most he’d laughed in a very long time; asylum life was obviously serving him well.

Mavis continued, “Apparently I have severe mental health problems that can’t be treated at home.”

She left it at that and Tony didn’t probe any further; some things were personal, and he of all people knew that. Instead, he gazed out the window, at the array of rosebushes on display.

“When do we get to go outside?”

“It depends on good behaviour and whether they believe sunshine and fresh air is good for your illness,” she told him sagely.

“Are _you_ allowed out?” Tony asked her, shifting against his spot on the wall.

“On occasion,” Mavis smiled, flashing teeth, “when I don’t go about biting people.”

Tony stared at her for a long moment. “Didn’t peg you as a biter.”

Mavis shrugged. “Maybe you need to up your people skills. I had you down as an alcoholic from the beginning.”

Tony hid his flinch from her words. He could hear Carol’s voice in his head, telling him that perhaps it was good for him to be around people who were blunt without care. “What, because I’m a rich middle-aged male with a beard?”

“Your hands are shaking slightly, and your eyes have that look about them. Like you’re in need for a fix. I have experience with alcoholics, though, so I might just be paranoid.” Mavis caught the ball and instead of throwing it once more, pocketed it and stretched backwards. For the first time since they’d begun the conversation, she turned and made eye contact with Tony.

Her eyes were a deep brown, flecked with bits of gold. Tony wondered what she thought of him, with his perfectly trimmed facial hair, plucked eyebrows, fingernails that were regularly cleaned and clipped professionally. They’d all fall into disarray the longer he stayed here – no matter how expensive the institution, they never allowed in outsiders for pampering. 

“You’re just a regular Nancy Drew, aren’t you,” he said haltingly.

Mavis simply shrugged.

A doctor walked in, one Tony hadn’t been introduced to before. He caught his gaze, nodding in friendly greeting.

“Who’s that?” he murmured to Mavis.

She glanced around. “Dr Vandran,” she told him. “You might be treated by him. It depends on your—”

“Psych eval,” Tony finished with her. He watched the man for a moment, until he’d exited the room, brow furrowed. The back of Tony's neck prickled as he looked at him.

A shrill bell rang, making him jump. Everyone in the room got up methodically, putting down whatever they’d been doing. Tony looked at Mavis.

“Lunchtime,” she explained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!!! The next chapter will take a little while to be posted. I'm going to be overseas for about a month, but I'll try getting it up on the last Wednesday/Thursday of August.
> 
> Hmu on [Tumblr](http://fanfictiongreenirises.tumblr.com/) =)


	4. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony settles in and begins treatment. Things go downhill, but probably not how you would expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI I'M BACK!!!!
> 
> Warnings: alcohol withdrawal symptoms and cravings (nothing too major) and Tony being on medication that highkey makes him woozy, which are often referred to as drugs.
> 
> I feel like I've made this disclaimer before but I'd like to state again that the medical stuff in this fic is mostly made up entirely for convenience, plot, and angst.

Tony woke to a sharp rap at the door. He had barely blinked his eyes open, squinting in the bright light – there were no blinds on the window – before someone barged in. They were wearing the typical nurse uniform, with a small tray in hand.

“Good morning, Mr Stark,” Tony heard a voice say pleasantly. “I have your first round of medication.”

Tony must’ve made some sort of noise as he rubbed at his eyes, sitting upright in bed, because she brought the tray over to him. On it was a glass of water and a small tray/bowl with four tiny blue pills on it.

Tony looked at them warily. He liked unknown substances in his body even less than he had a decade ago.

“You have to swallow them in front of me,” the woman – for it was a woman, Tony could see now that his eyes had booted up – explained. “I need to check they’ve gone down.”

“They all look the same. What’re they for?” he asked even as he took the tray in hand. Were these the antipsychotics, or perhaps the antidepressants? He would’ve thought that the first priority would be getting rid of the phantom Steve dogging his footsteps.

“You’ll need to discuss that with your doctor,” she told him. “I have no way of knowing which patients are permitted to know what. Now swallow, please.”

Despite his misgivings, Tony picked up the pills and poured them out into his hand. He wasted little time before promptly popping them into his mouth and swallowing them down with a few gulps of water. His bladder twinged at the treatment, but he ignored it.

“Gone,” he said, opening his mouth wide and sticking his tongue out at the nurse.

“Lovely,” she said with a dry smile. She walked over to the door, stopping to add, “Someone will be here in ten minutes to take you to your new quarters.”

Tony nodded in response. He could still feel the bitterness of the pills in his mouth and longed to wash it down with something (cheap scotch), but he had no idea what time it was or when they would have breakfast.

“You okay?”

Tony jumped, brain suddenly on high alert at the voice. He relaxed slightly when he saw Steve. He was in full Captain America regalia, but the uniform was the same one from the 40's that Tony had had on his wall in his childhood. Even now, after all these years, the image of Steve in that costume made him snap to attention.

“Steve,” he said, voice coming out breathily. He ran a hand over his face, part of him hoping the hallucination would go away instantly. When would the pills kick in?

“Tony,” Steve said in response. Tony hoped that if he looked up now, Steve’s face would have that small smile on it, but he didn't dare to lift his head on the (very likely) off chance that it didn't, that it showed the immense disappointment that Steve must be feeling watching how Tony was living out this borrowed life.

“God, I need a drink.” It was out before Tony could stop it, and he closed his mouth with an audible sound.

Steve’s face twisted up. He opened his mouth a few times to say something but closed it after a moment. 

Tony let out a humourless laugh. “Nothing to say to that, Cap?”

“I’m sorry,” Steve said. “I don’t want to make it worse. My presence here’s already caused all of—” He gestured at Tony and his surroundings, coming over to take a seat at the foot of the bed.

Sitting so close to him, Steve looked solid enough for Tony to touch.

“It’s not your fault.” Tony picked at the sheets idly. “I’m an alcoholic. I would’ve eventually relapsed and used the current circumstance, whatever it may have been, as an excuse. And it doesn’t get much worse than you dying, does it?” His eyes no longer burned when he said those words; maybe someday his throat would stop closing up as well.

“You have the strongest will of anyone I know!” Steve said. He was looking at Tony with surprise all over his features. “It takes courage and iron will to go sober in the first place, and you’re the bravest of all of us.”

“Gosh golly, I really am stroking my ego today, aren’t I,” Tony murmured. He got out of bed and went to stand in front of the window, staring outside. His hands were shaking; he planted them on the table to stop it being so obvious. 

“Tony, what’ll it take for you to believe I’m real?” Steve said wearily. “You’re on meds that probably stop hallucinations or whatever. I showed you my sketch pad that you had no idea was there. What else do you need?”

“I don’t need false hope, Steve!” Tony shouted. “Seeing you die once is enough - you think I can stand losing even this ghost version of you?” 

“Why’re you here, Tony?” Steve demanded. “You could’ve said no. No one could’ve forced you to come here to this—this _asylum_.”

“The board won’t let me come back until I get better, and I can’t operate the suit while I have alcohol or mind-altering substances in my system, meaning no Avengers.” There was a fire in his centre that he hadn’t felt for quite some time. “Without those two things, I’m nothing!”

“Tony that—that’s ridiculous.” Steve had gotten off the bed and was now pacing away his frustration. “If you really were just a businessman, or just a man in a tin can, then you wouldn’t even be a _fraction_ of who I know you to be—”

“I was always a good actor. Guess I always thought you’d see through me eventually, but then you died before you got the chance to. If I really were who you think I am, you’d still be here!”

“Stop measuring yourself based on me!” Steve shouted. “I don’t care if you think you were ‘acting’ the whole time I’ve known you – the Tony Stark I know would follow this lead, no matter how afraid he was of the answer. He’d _make sure_ there was no way I could be alive before giving up. Because he’s an _Avenger_ , and that’s what Avengers _do_.”

_Good lord_ , Tony thought, shifting his eyes away. Looking at Steve sometimes was like staring at the sun midday.

And hearing his words was akin to catching a mandrake’s call without earmuffs. “Yeah, well,” Tony exhaled roughly, “the Tony Stark you knew died when you took a hit for me. And I’m not an Avenger anymore.”

Steve marched up to him. “No.” He shook his head, a finger jabbing at Tony’s chest right where the arc reactor was, stopping millimetres from where it would’ve touched Tony. “No, you don’t get to say that, goddamnit. This—”

Tony would never find out what Steve was going to say, because at that moment there was a knock on the door moments before it opened. Tony started as Wally walked in.

“Follow me to your new quarters, Mr Stark,” Wally said. From the look Wally was giving him, Tony knew that he’d heard at least part of his conversation with ‘Steve’.

Tony didn’t glance back to see where Steve had gone as he made his way outside. He hastened to keep up with Wally’s long strides. The brisk walk made the sweat on his skin feel cold, and he wrapped the robe around his body tighter, stuffing his shaking hands inside the pockets. There was no one in the passageway, which once again struck Tony as strange – surely he couldn’t be awake any later or earlier than the rest of the patients.

Tony hadn’t been paying as much attention as he should’ve been, because he looked up and all of a sudden they were at in a hallway he hadn’t been in before. This one was wider; there were little tables with vases, large flowers drooping out of them and brushing against the wall. The walls were spotted with paintings – none of the styles that Steve dabbled in, or even any modern styles: these were all distinguished portraits with tiny plaques underneath them, and sometimes they were greeted with the occasional landscape.

Wally stopped in front of a door with a ‘22’ on it. He got out his massive keyring, somehow finding the correct one immediately (Tony suspected he had magic, because there was no other way – the nurse from before had done the same thing). He opened the door with a flourish.

“Your new quarters,” he told Tony.

Tony walked inside warily. It was a nicer than the room he’d been in the night before, he had to admit. There was a window in the centre of the room, looking out to the expansive gardens. There were still bars on them, but that was to be expected. The single bed was against one wall, once again bolted to the floor. There was a table in front of the window, an armchair in front of it.

There was a painting on the wall adjacent to the door. It was a city landscape, bright lights and high-rise buildings. It was of New York City, but rather than being from the air or a midpoint, the artist had painted it from the ground to convey the sheer vastness of the city.

Tony felt a wave of homesickness crash over him as he peered at it. Hastily, he shifted his gaze, and it fell upon the second door in the room. Curiously, Tony made his way towards it, and upon opening it, grinned at the sight of a fully functional bathroom.

“I was deemed unthreatening enough to get a bathroom of my own?” he said.

“So it seems, sir,” Wally replied. He glanced at his watch. “Please be in the common room in ten minutes.”

With that, he left before Tony had a chance to say anything. _How am I supposed to know my way there?_

After relieving himself, Tony took the time to observe the room. He needn’t have found the bug from the previous room, but at that point he hadn’t known he’d be moved so soon. He would have to carry out the process once more tonight.

Tony stopped short just as he was leaving the bathroom, met with Steve leaning against the wall with the painting. He stopped in his tracks for a moment, heart racing in his chest, and the worst thing was that he didn’t know whether it was because seeing Steve was such a painful experience, or because it’d been what his heart had always done at the sight of him.

Instead of acknowledging him, Tony closed his eyes for a moment, taking in a deep breath, and walked out the door. He didn’t turn to check whether Steve was still following him.

There were no reassuring sound of footsteps that from before the incident would have meant that Steve had Tony’s back; there was no sound of inhaling or exhaling, no visible breath in the air on a cold stakeout. Steve’s hand didn’t come to rest on Tony’s shoulder.

And yet, Tony knew that if he were to whirl around, Steve would be right behind him.

* * *

Tony’s words were slurred as Steve crouched down beside him. He was leaning with his back against the wall, a book in hand. The common room was fairly deserted; there were three other people here and there, none sitting together, engrossed in their own little worlds. Much like Tony.

“Tony?” he asked in a soft voice. He didn’t want to startle or frighten him, especially not in public. “You okay?” 

“Hey. Steve.” The words were long and drawn out, much like on a drunkard, but Steve knew that Tony didn’t have a lick of alcohol in his body. Tony smiled at him dopily. “Did the alarm go off?” He moved to get up, his limbs looking as though they were being controlled by two separate people.

“No, the alarm didn’t go off.” Steve hovered his hand over Tony’s shoulder, hoping that the thought would count for something. “You have nowhere to be.” That wasn’t strictly true, but Tony still believed Steve to be dead, and until he could get him to think otherwise, Tony couldn’t do anything.

“Oh.” Tony fell back down with a thump, fingers going back to the Rubik’s Cube in his hand. His fingers clumsily moved the pieces around until it was mostly solved, and then he’d dismantle it once more. “Tha’s good then. Feel kinda weird.”

“Yeah?” Steve frowned, sitting down beside Tony in a way that didn’t make his legs light up with pins and needles. “What sort of weird?”

Tony shrugged. “Dunno, Cap. Can’ really _think_.”

“Have you talked to your doctors? Maybe they can switch you to something else.” Steve didn’t like the thought of Tony having limited mental functions in an unfamiliar place surrounded by strangers, with no way to contact friends that were able to make physical contact with said strangers.

Tony shrugged. Steve hated it when Tony shrugged. “Said somethin’ ‘bout waiting a week to see if they impr’ve – ‘s the usual proc’dure. Don’ worry.” He lifted his hand up and patted Steve’s cheek and—

Steve started violently. Tony’s hand had touched his face for the briefest of moments. He stared at Tony, wide-eyed, but Tony didn’t seem to have noticed anything out of the ordinary. Hell, either Tony was choosing to adamantly ignore the fact that Steve was a ghost he couldn’t touch, or he was too drugged up to remember.

Either way, it wasn’t a good sign.

“Hey, Tony?”

“Mmm.” Tony’s eyes were back on the Rubik’s Cube.

“When can you have visitors?”

“Um,” Tony paused for a second, staring off thoughtfully. “Didn’ ask.”

“Wha— _why?”_

This time Tony grimaced slightly – his lazy form of shrugging. “Don’ want them t' see me like this.”

“Like this?”

“Yeah, Steve. High off my ass.” Tony let out a deranged laugh. “I don’ wan’ this t’be what they think of when they think of me.”

“You think too little of your friends.”

“An’ you think too highly of ever’one. Go away, St’ve. Leave me alone.”

Steve listened.

* * *

Steve was around more than ever now. Tony had no idea what to think. Steve would be sitting on the armchair, looking outside, when he woke up. He’d see Tony stir and greet him with a cheery ‘Good morning, Tony!’. Tony didn’t always respond, but when he slipped up and in a blur of forgetfulness, said, ‘Morning, Steve’, his friend’s face would light up. 

Steve would accompany him everywhere. The first couple days, he was the one who led Tony to the common room and then back to his quarters, because the meds were making Tony’s mind muddled and blurry.

He did his best to convince Tony he was a separate entity, keeping up a running commentary of all the things he’d learnt about the establishment and the people.

“That door there?” Steve pointed to a door Tony had just passed on the way to the dining hall. “I went in last night. Inside there’s this creepy portrait of some old lady holding this poodle. It’s covered in dust, so I couldn’t see the writing.”

_Rather convenient_ , Tony thought. He never spoke to Steve when there was a chance they’d be overheard. He didn’t need to be prescribed with more drugs, especially when he was just getting used to these.

There was a slight increase in the noise level as Tony neared the dining hall. People were spotted around the entire place, many of them eating alone while some ate in little cliques. He spotted Wanda, alone for once with a tray of food before her at a bench on the far wall, next to the piano. He grabbed his own and went to join her.

“Morning,” he greeted.

Wanda glanced up at him. “Good morning, Tony.”

Tony took a mouthful of orange juice and began buttering his slice of toast. “Where’s Peter?” he asked. They were rarely separate. 

“He had an early session,” Wanda said. “They do that, sometimes, when they want to catch us tired and off-guard.”

Tony grunted around a mouthful of toast. Swallowing, he said, “That’s trusting of them.”

Wanda lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “It is what it is.” She stood up with her empty tray. “Do you want to come to the garden with me?”

Tony looked longingly outside. It was a sunny day, the light piercing through the dark clouds that had gathered since he’d come here. He hadn’t once been outside in…however long he’d been here thus far. “How do I know I have permission?”

“If they stop you at the door, you don’t.” With that, Wanda walked over to the counter at the very front of the hall to place her tray.

Tony finished off his toast and drained the orange juice before he, too, stood up to put his tray away.

“You should eat more,” Steve said from beside him.

If this hadn’t been his life for the last few days, Tony would’ve jumped. He _had_ jumped, those first couple days when Steve had been around more and more – if anything, the medication was making the hallucinations worse.

He let on no indication that he had heard, continuing on his way. He heard Steve let out an aggravated sigh behind him, and felt his lips twitch slightly, muscles trying to recall how it felt like to smile automatically.

* * *

Wanda was standing with her back to the massive fountain in what was probably the centre of the garden they were in. There were rosebushes all along the sides, hedges of small pink flowers that Tony didn’t know the names of. He probably had, at one point, but now with his mind so difficult to access, thanks to his medication, that he couldn’t even be bothered wondering what they were.

Wanda smiled at him when he came up to stand beside her. Tony dipped his hand in the fountain, scaring the tiny orange fish he hadn’t known were in there.

“Come to the gazebo,” Wanda said, taking his hand.

It sent tingles down Tony’s spine to hold it, oddly reminding him of something for one moment. Wanda’s skin was freezing to the touch, as though she were not quite alive, but Tony didn’t question it. Medication did strange things.

The gazebo up close was even prettier than from afar. One side had glass walls while the other only had wooden pillars. There were vines trailing up and around the whole thing, just enough that one could describe it as _otherworldly_ and _breathtaking_ rather than _wild_ and _untameable._ Inside, there were hanging flowerpots with fauna of all colours dangling out of them. At the very centre was a giant tree trunk – this had evidently been built around a tree before the top had been cut off for whatever reason.

“Sort of like a grounded treehouse,” Tony commented.

Wanda hummed in reply, her hand tracing over the harsh bark in the centre. There were all sorts of things carved into it, little love hearts and initials.

Tony sat down at one of the benches, leaning his head back until it hit the tree. It was a different sort of peaceful here, with the sound of wind whistling through leaves and birds chirping all around him. There was even children’s laughter. 

He opened his eyes.

“I didn’t think they let kids in,” he said.

“They made an exception for me,” Wanda said to him, eyes on where the loud voices were coming from. “They were just babies when I came here, and with Peter and I having no one, I begged and begged until they let them stay. Now they’re homeschooled and everything, and I don’t have to worry how they are.” Her eyes were watery, but her smile was bright.

“That’s great, Wanda,” Tony said, still surprised that there were children living in a mental hospital. He supposed they were kept very separate from the rest of the patients, particularly the dangerous ones. He didn’t even know what Wanda and Peter were in for, really; what was Peter being treated for?

“They’re the only thing keeping me sane in this place,” Wanda said.

After a moment, she wandered away, walking in the direction of her boys’ cheering. Her skirt ruffled in the wind as she walked, the soft pink and white reminding Tony of summer.

Tony stayed where he was, eyes still closed. Maybe he’d go to that meditation session they offered; if it was anything like this, at least it would pass the time. He snorted slightly at the thought of Bruce’s face when he told him.

“That’s really weird,” Steve spoke from beside him.

This time Tony jumped away, hands raised with palms up, before relaxing. “Jesus! Don’t do that!” Steve beamed at him, and Tony realised that he had once again interacted with his maybe-hallucination. He exhaled loudly. _Fuck it_. “What’s weird?”

“The fact that her kids are allowed here? In an _asylum_?”

“We don’t call them that anymore, Steve,” Tony said calmly. “This is a hospital, like any other. And if they have kids here then maybe there’s a whole other section of the wing they’re kept.”

“Still…” Steve frowned, looking at Tony. “Are you okay? If you have a headache or a bad reaction to the pills, you need to tell them.”

“It’s the withdrawal,” Tony said shortly. “It’ll get worse before it gets better, y’know? And the side-effects will get better eventually; they just make my head feel weird. It’s why I stopped taking them in the first place.”

“In the first place…?”

“What, you think I’ve never been to a shrink before now?”

“No, I just...never really thought about it, I guess.”

“I didn’t really broadcast it, either.”

“Still, I’m your friend. I should’ve seen…I should’ve been there for you. You helped me so much with my nightmares. Having you be there for me, just knowing that there was someone in the world who cared about how I was doing? It made a big difference.”

“I wouldn’t’ve let you be there for me, Steve. It’s not in me. And you can’t help someone who doesn’t ask for it.”

Steve turned to him. “What, do you think it’s _weak_ to ask for help, for comfort? Do you think _I_ was weak to lean on you?”

“No—of course not!” Tony said instantly. “It’s different, though…”

“How?” Steve demanded. “How is your asking for help any different than me?”

Tony didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t come across as insanely pathetic. _Because you’re Captain America_ , he wanted to tell Steve. _Because your nightmares come from fighting wars for your country, and mine…don’t._ Tony’s demons were his fault, and thus they belonged to him, and him alone.

Because sometimes it was just easier to be adrift in the sea of alcohol than it was to try and stay away.

He said nothing, and they lapsed into silence. Pauses in conversation between him and Steve had never been _awkward_. They were better described as _comfortable_ or _companionable_ , but this time there was a tenseness between them that Tony didn’t quite know what to do with. 

“You seem to be better,” Steve offered. “It must be nice to take a break every once in a while, something villains can’t crash.”

“Careful. You might jinx it.” Try as he might, Tony couldn’t quite picture fighting in his suit in this place. His normal life and this existence here didn’t touch even vertexes.

Steve huffed a laugh. “You wouldn’t mind that. Hell, you must be going out of your mind doing nothing.”

Tony didn’t know what to say. He truly didn’t mind it here, sitting around with nothing to do other than watch the trees move around them and read a classic he’d never gotten around to. It was _nice_ being able to let his mind go blank and not have to worry about the company or the team or the world.

Steve was looking at him with thinly veiled alarm in his eyes. “Question,” he said slowly. “Did you ask what drugs they have you on?”

Tony shrugged again. Steve’s eyebrow twitched at the sight. “A bunch of antipsychotics, which don’t fucking work, and some new antidepressant thing, and they say they’ll put me on anxiety meds if I seem to need them.”

Steve said nothing. Tony was glad.

* * *

Tony was allowed outside once again after afternoon tea. He wrapped his robe around him; the breeze that had been soft and warm during the day now had a bite to it. The clouds were coming in fast – it would certainly rain, if not storm, that night. He found himself looking forward to it in a way he’d never cared to look forward to normal, everyday acts of nature before.

Tony’s head felt as though it was stuffed with cotton. He couldn’t think straight, but it didn’t matter because why would he want to think? There was nothing for him to think about, no one that needed him, and if the doctors said that this was what he needed to get better, then that’s what he would do.

Wanda stood by the railing of the large porch. Her skirt flew in the wind, and coupled with the wildness of hair that hadn’t seen a brush in what appeared to be weeks, she seemed to belong to another plane of existence. Her hair shone in the bleak light, brighter than anything else Tony could see.

“Good afternoon,” he said in greeting. He stood beside her, looking out into the garden.

This was separate from the side he’d been on before. There were giant willow trees spotted about, with a small sliver of water visible through them, disappearing as it flowed through the earth. Small flowers bloomed here and there, spotted around the grassy plains in the way weeds were, but Tony knew these weren’t weeds. This place was way too prestigious and he was paying far too much for them to be weeds.

“Hello, Tony.” Wanda turned to him, giving him a simple smile. “It is, isn’t it?” She let off a glow, like she was in a moisturiser ad.

Tony hummed in response, leaning forward with his elbows on the railing. Moments like this reminded him of life before Iron Man, before Afghanistan, back when he was richer than god and possessed half the morals he now had to hold him in place and absolutely none of the guilt. He could picture it clearly now: he’d charm Wanda, simply because she was beautiful and so was he, and then they would spend a day or perhaps a week or even a month together. He would walk to galas with her hanging off his arm like a prized parakeet, and everyone would _ooh_ and _ahh_ and try to get in with her. She would let them, knowing that her power over them wouldn’t last, as would that Tony from all those years ago.

Now there was no desire to do so. He couldn’t even imagine the feeling of wanting her, for even one moment. Hell, even looking at Steve sometimes the longing was distant, and it was everything he’d ever wanted in the worst way possible.

He wished he’d told Steve, just once, that he loved him. Just so that Steve had known that he was loved, that he was needed, that he was wanted. It may not have stopped him from taking the blow for Tony, and maybe it would’ve ruined their friendship forever, made Steve awkward around him like he was awkward around strangers who gushed over him, but at least Steve would’ve known.

At least Tony would’ve known.

“How’re the kids?”

“Out and about.” Wanda pointed straight ahead, and if Tony concentrated, he could hear snippets of laughter and shrieking, see flashes of ankles and wrists and clothing as the two of them played.

Tony sighed. “To be a child again,” he said in amusement.

“Would you want to?” Wanda turned to him. “I certainly wouldn’t. I’m fairly happy as I am now. Being that age,” she nodded to the gardens, “just means you know nothing and believe everything. That sort of naivety is easy to take advantage of.” 

Tony had already been shaking his head when she’d asked the question. “I wouldn’t want to go back to my childhood, but I wouldn’t mind a different one. A chance to start over, be a more worthy man. Maybe then everything that happened afterwards would be better, to grow out of the naivety properly.”

But even as he said this, he knew that, even given the opportunity, he’d never take it. Who needed a stable, healthy childhood when they could grow up to be on a team surrounded by the greatest people in the world? Tony would never sabotage the possibility of meeting Steve, having him in his life, having the _Avengers_ in his life.

They fell into a comfortable silence, each content at being in the other’s company. Flecks of rain were beginning to fall, but no one came outside to get them, and so they didn’t go in. 

“They never get sick,” Wanda told Tony with a that smile on her face that all mothers have when talking about their children. “Ever since they were little, they’ve been perfectly healthy.”

The rain trickled down a little faster, finally making its way past Tony’s hair to his scalp. Still, they didn’t move. Lightning sparked in the distance as thunder rumbled. Tony counted the seconds between each noise, wondering what rain falling here would sound like from his window.

“My friend was sickly as a child.” It was the first time he’d spoken about Steve without someone asking about him. “He had a list of illnesses that took up a whole page, believe it or not. This was during the Great Depression, too – how he survived that to become who he is— _was_ —” He couldn’t continue. The lump in his throat choked him up, and to his horror, his eyes were stinging once more.

This time he let the tears come, lifting his face slightly so the rain would fall on it. Wanda placed a hand atop his, and Tony felt warmer than he had in weeks. He bit his lips, holding down any noise that might make their appearance – he could handle a few tears, but not _sobbing_. His eyes burned, and he squeezed them shut, only opening them once he couldn’t tell the tears apart from the rain.

When he finally had a hold of himself again, he asked, “Where’s Peter? I haven’t seen him in a while.”

Wanda brushed a leaf off her skirt, straightening it. “I haven’t seen him since yesterday. But it’s probably fine. He disappears sometimes, and when he’s back, he’s just like he always is. I think it’s just day-long observations, but he never tells me.”

Tony gave her hand the reassuring squeeze this time, and the two of them watched as one of Wanda’s boys threw a bright red ball at the other. He leapt to catch it, diving forward with his arms outstretched. His fingers wrapped around the ball, and then he fell into puddle, emerging from it muddy and soaked. His brother, watching from a distance, threw back his head in laughter.

Wanda watched with bright eyes, the tiny worry lines across her face gone.

* * *

“How are you doing, Mr Stark?” 

“Better, I think.”

“That’s good to hear. How so?”

“I…I _feel_ better. Calmer. My head’s quieter.”

“Your head’s quieter?”

“Yeah. This is the longest stint I’ve gone without even touching a piece of tech more advanced than a light switch. I thought I’d die of boredom, but I don’t want to go back to the frenzy I was in before.”

“That’s pleasing to hear. I hope this means you’ll continue with the changes to your lifestyle that you’re practicing now.”

“I mean, I’m not sure how long it’ll be before my sleep pattern goes back to the way it used to be, but I’ll certainly try.”

“And what of your hallucinations? How have they been going?” 

“Um. I still see him. Steve. He’s still around everywhere. I try not to interact with him, but sometimes he’s so real that I forget.”

“I see.”

“You’ve been giving me antipsychotics, though. How am I still seeing him?”

“Not all medication works the same way on everyone. We’ll try something else next time.”

* * *

Tony had free time to spend in the common room for a little while after breakfast every morning. It was nice having a routine so straightforward. Every morning, he’d be woken up by a sharp knock at the door, and a nurse would give him his medication. Tony no longer looked at the pills he was taking; he blearily poured the tray out into his palm and swallowed the whole thing down with a few mouthfuls of water.

He would be given around ten minutes before he had to make an appearance in the dining hall. He wasn’t allowed anything sharper than a hairbrush, so his beard was slowly but surely taking form. He could feel it every time he ran his hands over his face, whenever he brushed his teeth. Whenever he caught sight of Steve staring at it.

Once upon a time, it may have bothered him to look less than stellar even someplace like this where absolutely no one cared, but now it was just another dot point on the long list of things he no longer had the energy to give a shit about. In a way, it was almost a relief to not have to trim it every morning, no matter what sort of a mood or breakthrough he was in.

Food was served in abundance. Benches by the side of the hall held buffets for each meal. Breakfast typically had a few cereals, a large pot of steaming hot porridge, pancakes, waffles, trays of fruit. Tony’s hands itched for the warmth of a coffee mug to wrap around, but there was a strict no-caffeine rule – even the tea they were served was herbal only, and Tony, sadly, was beginning to get a taste for it.

He held a cup of peppermint tea in hand now as he flipped through the pages of _Persuasion_. Tony had never considered himself to be a particular fan of Austen, but he had to admit that he was relating rather strongly to Anne Elliot. It was a short book, one that he could’ve make quick work of in a day, had it not been for the pills slowing down his brain and making it harder for him to focus on the words.

Someone sat down beside him on the couch. Tony looked up to see—

“Mav’s?” he asked in surprise. He hadn’t seen her since that first day.

“Morning, Stark,” Mavis said to him. She gestured to the box she had just placed on the small coffee table in front of them; Monopoly.

Tony’s eyebrows rose. “You wanna play _M’nopoly_ wi’ _me_?” he said. “You realise who I am, righ’?”

Mavis gave him a withering look. “Just because your real life is a monopoly doesn’t mean you’ll be good at the game. Who knows, maybe if I had the resources, I’d be just as good as you are.”

Tony smiled. “Y’re on.”

Steve at some point sat down beside him, watching the game with amusement. “How come you never wanted to play with me?”

Tony ignored him, organising his deeds with more concentration than needed. He currently had Mayfair, a few of the pinks, and all three of the light blues. He hated to admit it, but Mavis, with all of the yellows and greens, was probably going to beat him if he didn’t get Park Lane and the majority of the rail stations.

“Your turn, Stark.” Mavis handed him the dice.

“Did ya pay me for Pic’dilly?” His memory was getting worse and he blamed it on the drugs. He also wanted a calculator, a wish that had never once crossed his mind before.

“Sweetie, we deducted it from the several hundreds you owe me.”

“Wow, ’m really losing, aren’ I.”

Steve snorted. “So this is why Pepper’s CEO and not you.”

Tony, without thinking, replied, “Damn right ’s why. Nev’r play with ‘er – she’ll _wreck_ ya.”

Mavis blinked as Steve’s grin widened. “Wait,” she said, “what?”

Tony cursed in his head. He rubbed his eyes as he said, “’member how I told you bou’ my ‘llucinating my dead best friend’s ghos’?”

“Ah.”

“Yeah, ‘ah’.”

To Mavis’ credit, she continued with the game with no further questions, but this time Tony shut Steve out like he’d ignore a noisy fly, and after a while, Steve quietened. He sat by Tony’s side, though, watching the game with a strange expression on his face, a sad smile playing at his lips.

“I’ll be back,” Mavis said. “Don’t rob me while I’m gone. I know you billionaire types.”

Tony gave her a sloppy salute. “No prom’ses, boss.”

“Look, torture me all you want by ignoring me, but please salute properly.” Tony almost laughed at Steve’s words, a smile finally breaking through at the next. “What even is the point of being mourned into insanity if you don’t even uphold my wishes.”

“Didn’ ‘xpect morbid hum’r fr’m you,” he said in an undertone. “Tha’ migh’ jus’ be th’ mos’ ‘merican th’ng you’ve e’er said.”

“Oh, so now you’re talking to me?”

“No, jus’ talkin’ t’ my tiny pile o’ fake cash.”

“Is this why you always refused to play with us whenever we voted Monopoly on game night?” Steve was leaning one elbow on the table, and somehow didn’t go through.

Tony sniffed. “’s like bringin’ work to game nigh’.”

Steve looked at him incredulously. “This is nothing like your job.”

At that moment, a loud shriek pierced Tony’s sensitive ears and he snapped his head to the doorway, adrenaline pumping into his veins. For a moment, the veil he’d allowed to be wrapped around himself lifted, and everything was brighter.

And then he realised it was Wanda’s children, and he settled back down again.

Steve had risen to a crouch at his startled movements, and when Tony turned to him, his eyes were scanning the room with the vigilance of a soldier. “What is it?” he hissed.

Tony tilted his head. “Jus’ Wanda’s boys. Didn’ know they were ‘llowed in here.” he shrugged. “Go play with ‘em, maybe. They’d love to see Captain ‘merica.” He let out a high-pitched laugh that no one in this place took as strange. “Oh wait.”

“Tony, you’re scaring me.” Steve’s eyes, his sharp blue eyes, were staring straight into Tony’s soul, and Tony knew Steve wouldn’t like what he found in there. He looked away, shifting his body around.

“Leave me ‘lone, Steve.”

Steve sighed and stood up. “I’ll go find Wanda’s boys,” he said.

* * *

“Right this way, Mr Stark.”

Tony followed the nurse. He’d tried to keep track of everyone who worked in the hospital at first, figuring there’d be a handful of people – especially considering the small number of patients in the place – but after a few days when he’d barely see the same nurse twice (that he could remember), he’d stopped caring.

“Who am I seeing today,” he squinted at the name tag as he walked alongside her, “Nurse Birch?”

“Dr Croirac,” Birch told him. She wasn’t one for conversation or niceties, a fact that Tony made relieved.

Tony nodded, stumbling slightly as he followed her. Birch walked briskly along, shoes making a clacking noise against the wood of the flooring. Tony’s own feet, wearing the standard hospital issue cloth shoes, only made noise when the rubber grips on the soles squeaked.

When Tony had lived in Stark Mansion as a child, there had been a wing no one was permitted to go in wearing any form of footwear. The maids and caretakers would all put on special microfibre socks and tiptoe around as they did the housework.

Tony had turned that entire section into a gym for the Avengers.

Dr Croirac was in the same room Tony had been in the last time. When Birch knocked the door, Dr… Tony wracked his brain trying to remember the name.

_Vandran_. _Amaranth Vandran_.

The man was once again in a perfectly pressed white labcoat, a practise Tony found rather amusing. Vandran spared little attention to Tony as he brushed past, curling his lip slightly as their shoulders brushed. He smelled of antiseptic and smoke, and Tony couldn’t quite rein in the bad feeling he got from him.

“Come in,” Croirac called.

The room was different now, darker. One of the blinds had been drawn across the window, and to compensate for it, a lamp shone on a side table. Croirac was at the little set-up near the bookshelf when Tony appeared. The scent of air freshener was strong, enough to make Tony wrinkle his nose slightly. It was clear, from the two glasses on the table and the hasty slam of a drawer right as Tony had entered, that there had been alcohol in here mere moments ago.

Tony gingerly sat down in one of the high-backed chairs as Croirac took his place behind the massive desk.

“So, Mr Stark,” he began, placing his elbows on the desk, “how are you?”

“’m great, doc.” Tony smiled. It was a fake smile, because nowadays he never had the energy to smile. Whatever new pills they were giving him was making each individual cell in his body weigh a tonne, and it was exhausting. “An’ please, it’s Tony.”

_Living_ was exhausting.

“I’m glad to hear that, Tony. Why don’t you…elaborate?”

He shrugged. “’s like I said las’ time. I like it here. ’s peaceful. Sittin’ in the garden’s so diff’rent t’ sittin’ in Centr’l Park. Hell, ’m thinkin’ of pl’nting m’ own gard’n, an’ actu’lly using ‘t.”

Croirac hummed as he listened. Croirac was a good listener – he had to be. Steve had always said that he was a good listener, that Tony could come talk to him anytime, but Tony had always been hesitant to take him up on the offer. Steve was meant for greater things than listening to Tony moan and groan about his problems.

“I heard you tried meditation? How did that go?”

Keeping his face animated was tiring, but something in Tony forced him to keep up the facade. “Y’know, ’s strange. I’ve tried it ‘fore – m’ friend Bruce would get me ta join ‘im s’metimes at home, an’ then if he found me workin’ in the m’rnings, he’d drag me with him t’ a gr’up tha’ met in the Park – but here ’s differ’nt. I c’n actu’lly not think f’r once.”

“For once?”

He tried to find the words and pronounce them properly. “I c’n wind down here, y’know? My whole c’reer – both of ‘em – ‘s about thinking and being better’n the other guy, but here there is no oth’r guy. There’s no competition, there’s nothin’ in danger – the _news channel's_ blocked here. I never thought I’d be content with doing abs’lutely nothing.”

“The only exception being alcohol, you mean.” Croirac stroked his beard. “Tell me, Tony, how is the withdrawal going?”

“’s faster th’n las’ time.” Tony played with the seam of his trousers. “I still have crav’ngs – I’ll alw’ys have cravings. I know that.”

“You’ve taken on this forced sobriety very well.”

“Didn’ have much choice, really.” _Besides, the drugs work like alcohol_.

The second the thought was in his mind, Tony’s stomach plummeted. The drugs were keeping him underwater. He’d said it himself – it was nice not to have to think and feel for once and have no consequences. It was _easy_ to be able to walk around wrapped in Styrofoam and be able to see Steve and occasionally even pretend like he was really there.

It was easy falling out of one addiction into another.

“I—doc," he began, stuttering, “I think—I can’t be—I need to get off these pills. The side eff’cts—I don’t like ‘em.”

Croirac fixed a concerned gaze upon him, and Tony’s face burned with the weight of his eyes. “The side effects?” he asked.

“I can’ think with them in m’ syst’m.” He gestured impatiently – sloppily – emotions bubbling to the surface far easier than they should’ve. “I wan’ to try s’mething else.”

“Okay, Tony, I’ll look into that. Don’t worry. We only want what’s best for you, after all.”

Tony gave as sharp a nod as he were able, stifling the irrational anger that had risen in him only moments before. “Okay, doc.”

“So, have you been making friends?”

Croirac’s tone was even, feathers unruffled. Sitting in front of him, Tony felt like a petulant teenager. “I played M’nopoly with Mavis. She’s nice. I like her, even if she’s bett’r at it th’n I am. And Wanda. I’ve spent a lot of time with Wanda.”

Croirac was nodding as Tony spoke. “Yes, she’s very friendly.”

“Yeah. Love her ki’s. ’s great that you guys’re lettin’ them stay here with her – she’s so grateful…” Tony trailed off at that look on Croirac’s face.

“Tony,” Croirac said slowly. “You’ve seen them?”

Tony searched Croirac’s face for a hint as to where this line of questioning was going. “Yes,” he said warily. “Two boys. Can’t miss ‘em. Billy an’ Tommy, I th’nk Wanda said their names ‘re.”

“Tony.” Tony really wished Croirac would stop saying his name like that, as though his pet dog had just died and Croirac had been the one to run it over in his car. “Tony, do you know why Wanda’s here?”

“I- ’s never really c’me up, an’ I don’ feel comf’rtable asking…”

Croirac took off his glasses. “I know that there’s a matter of patient confidentiality involved here, but if she’s making you worse, then you need to know. Wanda Maximoff is suspected to have started a house fire that killed her two children. Whether it was intentional or not was never proven. She’s rather like you, really, in that she still sees her two boys. She doesn’t realise they aren’t real, and nothing anyone says will convince her otherwise. Do you understand what I’m saying, Tony?”

It was as though everything was happening around him from a distance. He could see Croirac’s mouth moving, but the sounds around him were coming through a layer of ocean as the waves crashed over him, leaving him drowning.

He had _seen_ Billy and Tommy with his own eyes, caught flashes of them playing in the expansive grounds around the Mansion. He’d heard their laughter before Wanda had even told him of their existence.

Even Steve had been aware that they were real, right? He wracked his head, trying to think of an instance where Steve had been around the kids. His brain failed him, unable to sort out the muddy memories of the last however many days he’d been in the godforsaken mansion.

“Tony, I think you’re right about your medication.”

Tony looked up, barely keeping himself from unravelling in front of the doctor. “What?”

“I’m going to prescribe a larger dosage for you. If Wanda’s hallucinations are becoming yours, then your condition is much more than what I’d originally anticipated, and I apologise for that. We’ll make you right again, Tony.”

Tony couldn’t remember the walk from Croirac’s office to his room; one second he was in the chair, gripping the leather-covered handles with all his might, and the next he sat on the bed, staring at nothing.

He didn’t realise what had stirred him from the blankness of his head until suddenly his gaze focused on a bright blue object in front of him. It was moving; the colours rose and fell with every movement the object made, light glistening off the scales.

“—up!” The voice was bordering on hysteria, panic laced in the strong commands it spouted. “Tony, c’mon. Please.”

Tony blinked. “S’eve.” His voice was a wet sheet of paper. He didn’t want to move.

Steve let out a laugh that was seeped in near tears, a hand rubbing at his eyes. “Oh, thank God. I thought they’d fucked with your mind somehow. You were all catatonic and—”

“Wanda’s kids aren’ re’l.” Tony’s lips barely moved. He couldn’t bring himself to move his eyes from where they were stationed. “They aren’ real.”

Steve bit his lip. “I know. I went looking for them today, after you spotted them. Couldn’t find anything. Not even a room for children.”

“Why c’n I see them, Steve?” Tony’s voice burst from his throat, hoarse and deranged. “They’re not mine! You’re m’y only ghost! Why c’n I see them too?”

Steve crouched down until he was once again level with Tony, as though he were a small child who needed things to be explained to in a calm and soothing manner. “Tony, it’s going to be okay. You’re going to be—”

“Don’ _say_ that! You don’ know that – y’ aren’ real either—” His breath was coming rapidly. He really was losing it, if he could no longer tell what was real and what was a figment of his mind. Howard had always despised his imagination. He would shout all sorts of things about boys being stuck in fantasy worlds, about how it would be Tony’s downfall, that Tony would waste the Stark fortune chasing one of his pointless fantasies and die by his naïve innocence, a destitute wreck, and here Tony was proving him right. He could no longer trust his mind, the one thing he’d always had, through everything. What was Tony Stark without his intelligence?

Tony stumbled over to the table, where a jug of water and a plastic cup sat. He poured into the cup, half of it spilling all over the desk and onto the floor. It was finished in a few giant swallows that made his throat burn, and once the cup was empty, he turned to where Steve stood, a few metres away from him, and threw the cup at him.

Steve’s hands rose up automatically to catch it, but the cup went straight through him and hit the wall with a muffled thud. It fell to the ground with a splatter of water droplets. Tony’s legs couldn’t hold him up anymore. He fell backwards, sliding down the wall until he was sitting with his legs laid out in front of him. Once, he may have thought that tears would come. He would cry until he couldn’t cry, until the ocean rose and fell out of his eyes and into this dusty existence, until he was so tired he would fall into the water and sleep there for eternity.

But now there was nothing in him left to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting for this update!!! This would've been up like eight hours ago if I hadn't taken a 12 hour nap lol but the rest of the fic is going to be posted a chapter a week as usual =D
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://fanfictiongreenirises.tumblr.com/)!!


	5. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve goes on an adventure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> massive thank you to everyone who's been reading and following this <3 seeing the response makes my day

Steve hadn’t told Tony this for a number of reasons, but ever since their third night here, he had been leaving his vigil at Tony’s bedside to go and explore the hospital. He told himself that the main reason was that he didn’t want to get into another fight with Tony about the... logistics of his existence, but the truth was that he was worried about his friend’s state of mind. He hated seeing him like this.

With the cocktail of medication he’d been on for the first few days, Tony’s mental functioning was all over the place. Now, with the additional dosage, it was much worse. He’d only been on them for one day, but Steve could already see the drastic downward climb Tony had made since. Most of the time it was as though he was lost in a fog, but sometimes he’d turn and _look_ at Steve, in a way he hadn’t before, as though he’d forgotten than Steve had died and then been reminded all over again. That look always made Steve turn away, no matter how strong he tried to be.

Tonight, though, he resumed his exploration of the mansion. There was something off about this place, and he would only feel comfortable in his position as Tony’s protector if he knew every inch of it.

Since his ‘death’, the world had looked different to Steve. There was something about the very air around him that held a different weight to it, as though it pressed down on him from all sides. Steve didn’t even need to breathe, but did so anyway. He didn’t need to eat, but he still craved the pancakes he saw Tony choke down from time to time. He definitely didn’t need physical contact, but Tony did – Tony had always needed to touch and to be touched, the first to clasp Steve’s shoulder and offer a hug – and the most frustrating thing about his life now was that Steve couldn’t provide that for him.

He wanted to hold Tony tight and promise that he’d be better next time, that he’d notice and make sure Tony was doing okay and not falling into whatever hole he’d just dove into without a second thought.

The hallways were a sort of purple when Steve poked his head out from the doorway. Nights were always like this: the sky was never black, always a shade of violet. It was its own eerie beauty and the artist in Steve itched to be able to hold a paintbrush.

The moonlight was a clear white but also a deep red, diametrically contradicting but also a diametric truth. Steve didn’t pause to ponder on it – if he did, he might end up like Tony. He’d leave the science (or magic, which he suspected played a considerable role in his current predicament) to people like Tony and Bruce, Reed and Strange. 

He’d already explored every square metre of the residential wing for the patients, doing his best to not invade anyone’s privacy. There were a handful who were strapped to their beds every night, unable to thrash about. Steve had paused in their chambers for longer than the rest, needing to see whether their bonds were in any way harmful. But for the most part, it seemed that this mental institution was doing right by its patients. 

Steve had moved on to the basement of the place. So far, he’d found three entrances to it, but none were accessible by the patients – they weren’t allowed in there, Tony had told him. There were few places they _were_ allowed, Steve had noticed, but it was done in a way that wasn’t strikingly obvious.

Patients were told that the entire mansion was theirs to roam. And yet, the basement was off limits. The upper floors (meaning floors from the second and up) were for the various medical professionals – their quarters and their offices – and therefore also off bounds. Steve would go to the second floor the next day, depending on how large and interesting the basement was. Patients were also not allowed to go to their own room during the day, and never permitted to enter anyone else’s. Thus, the only areas they were _really_ able to be in were the common room, the library room (which was essentially one half of the common room), the gardens, the dining hall, and some of the smaller rooms when there were optional sessions being held.

Tony had only been to a handful of meditation classes before the drugs had made it so that he was too antsy or too drowsy to go, or even want to go. He couldn’t focus, instead jumping from book to book to board game to wandering around outside. He preferred being outside to anything else, Steve had noticed.

Steve let out a muttered curse as he descended the staircase that led to the pitch-black basement. _My shield arm for a map._ Weren’t evacuation plans essential for places like this?

He faced a long corridor, doors along it all closed. He hadn’t expected any different – every other entrance to the basement led to the same, and the building was relatively rectangular in shape. Each entrance from the various parts of the mansion obviously led to one singular corridor, making his job easier.

Slowly, he realised that there was a muted light down here – or the serum saw fit to give him post mortem night goggles. It was greenish, which added to the sensation. Steve walked along slowly, assessing each and every creak and groan of the mansion as it settled for the night.

The first door was to his left. It was plain, containing none of the engravings or numbers like the ones on the other levels. The doorknob was old-fashioned, the keyhole one that Steve was intimately familiar with from his childhood.

Steve first stuck his head through it to see if it was worth entering – some rooms were completely bare. This one had a large object to one side, possibly a piece of furniture, covered in a dusty sheet. Dust also had a glittery look to it, a sheen that came from within, as though the probable sixty to seventy percent that was thought to be dead human skin still held onto a little vitality long after it’d separated from its host. Steve didn’t like to think about it.

The next room was much the same, with a few covered devices – for Steve had seen the multiplugs that had wires going under the sheets – here and there. There was a large cupboard by a wall, which held lab coats and other pieces of clothing suited for surgery.

Steve was beginning to get a bad feeling about this place. The fact that everything looked faintly green didn’t help matters.

The next room was empty, but empty of _everything_. There was no dust in there at all. It was the largest of all the rooms he’d been in in the basement thus far, about twenty metres lengthwise.

Steve walked around in it for a moment. There were windows near the very top of the room, thin and rectangular with bars on them. They were nothing new to Steve – he had seen plenty of windows similar to this in basements, where the land had once been at a different level than it was now.

There were curious drag marks on the floor. Steve crouched to study one. They were always in pairs, suggesting equipment – chairs, tables, surgical devices. They led in through one door and out another. Steve followed them to where the scratches made a vertex. Here, the floor was not only covered in scratches, but there were also what appeared to be singes in the woodwork. 

Steve’s brows furrowed as they contemplated the markings. There were obviously some form of procedures occurring here, but he wouldn’t know how dangerous or illegal until he observed one. Or found more evidence.

With one final glance back at the empty room, Steve walked back out through the door he’d entered with. If he squinted, he thought he could see the end of this absurdly long hallway.

The next few doors led to rooms similar to the ones Steve had explored, and before long, he found his guard dropping as his mind wandered. And, as always, it led to Tony.

He could picture him as he’d left him, hair fanned out on the pillow. It’d grown long far quicker than Steve would’ve imagined – Tony must’ve gotten it trimmed fortnightly at this rate. It had begun to curl at the nape of his neck, reaching down to his eyes when it lay against his forehead. He no longer moved around in his sleep, not like he’d done the few times Steve had stood vigil over him, or the times they’d shared a room or even a bed. Now, he lay as still as the dead, and Steve would stare at his chest to check whether it still rose and fell.

He’d wanted to brush it out of Tony’s face, to be able to cradle his cheek and see as his eyelids flutter as he awoke. He wanted Tony to _look_ at him, really look, and not just stare through with that half-dazed sheen in his eyes. He missed _his_ Tony, because this man he guarded was a hollow shell.

Steve finally happened on a door more interesting than the rest – that is, it wasn’t _entirely_ wooden. There was a single glass panel that allowed a glimpse inside. Steve peeked in through the glass first, to see what an observer may spot from the corridor. There was a cabinet inside, similar to one he’d seen in Bruce’s laboratory, filled with test tube holders and empty beakers.

He could only see the top few shelves, though – the bottom half of the cabinet had steel doors with keyholes. Steve phased through the door, no longer even blinking at the oddness of the movement, and beelined towards it. Scoping out a place was no fun unless there was actually something to scope.

Steve crouched down and poked his head through the door. He could already picture the reactions of his team when he told them this story. Hopefully he’d be able to make out at least a few objects inside. He hoped he could imagine himself a working torch on his belt.

Steve had quickly realised that he had some input on his outfit, but that it also very much depended on people he was interacting with, another reason why he attributed this whole mess to magic. Sometimes, if he thought hard enough, he would find himself back in his old outfit; sometimes he’d be _bored_ enough to try to change his clothes to his old costume. But most of the time he was either in his Captain America uniform or plain white T-shirt and trousers. Force of habit, really, to see and feel himself in those two outfits.

Now, he concentrated hard on the feeling of the tiny LED torch he kept in his belt, one that Natasha had jokingly bought him, printed with caricature version of the Avengers logo. He focused on the feel of its weight against his hip, the way it fit into his hand, how its light pierced the face of emptiness.

With his eyes squeezed shut, he could almost pretend to feel the change in his clothes as it happened. When he opened them, he was in the newest rendition of the Captain America costume, and around his waist was his utility belt, torch tucked into a small pocket.

Steve grinned as his fingers made contact with it. With a single click, the sound resounding in his ears, it lit up the place. Steve had no idea what anyone else would see if they entered the room now, but with his strange vision he saw starlight pouring out of the object, each individual strand of light visible to his eyes. 

He stared, mesmerised, bringing up a hand to trail through the glow from the torch. His fingers moved through them, particles shifting around his hand until it was engulfed in them. They wrapped around each digit, his hand appearing as though it was wearing a glove. It wasn’t like how it normally looked, shining a torch on a hand. This was otherworldly, the stuff of fairy tales.

Steve blinked. He was here on a mission; he couldn’t get distracted. Tony was counting on him, even if he didn’t know it yet. Nevertheless, he gazed at the torchlight shining on his fingers for another moment, memorising the ways it moved so he could recreate it later on a canvas. 

Steve stuck his head back inside the cabinet and brought the torch in with him. He closed his eyes on some instinct still ingrained in him that made them shut tightly every time they saw a solid object approach. When Steve reopened them, he was faced with rows upon rows of test tubes, each filled with colourful substances.

There were four rows of shelves. The bottom one was bare except for a pile of paper in one corner, stuffed back as far as it could go. It was covered in so much dust that Steve couldn’t even read the title, no matter how much he blew on it or tried to wipe it off – _“my other arm for a feather duster”._ The next three were all strange liquids. Steve didn’t know what they were for, but he could guess.

He didn’t like the idea of any of this stuff making its way into Tony’s – or anyone else’s – body.

Some of it smelled funky, like the medicine back in his day that the sisters at his orphanage would make them swallow at the start of every winter. He had no idea what had been in it – none of them did; he suspected the sisters hadn’t, either – but every time they lost someone to the season, it was a running joke that it’d been the fault of the medicinal brew.

He could still remember the frozen look of shock on his teammates’ faces when he’d relayed that particular joke to them.

Steve would have to follow one of the nurses and see where they stored their medication. He ran his eyes along the stores of liquids, committing each to memory. And then, with one final glance at the inside of the locked cabinet through the brilliant glow of the torch, Steve moved back and clicked it off. 

Without the light, the room was something out of a horror novel. Steve could almost picture Frankenstein’s monster walking around in these shadows, and the weather outside was only helping his imagination. He did another quick peruse of the room and then walked out of it and onto the next. The sooner he got back to Tony, the better. 

Steve almost yelped as he made contact with the wooden door towards the end of the passage. Blinking, he tried to walk through it again, but just as the previous time, he couldn’t. Steve placed a hand on the wood, trying to feel it – maybe he was coming out of his ghost-ness? – but his fingers sensed nothing.

Disconcerted, Steve walked into the room beside it with perfect ease and tried to phase through the wall into the next room.

Once again, he was hit with a solid wall of nothingness.

Some part of Steve, quite a sizeable part, revelled in finally having something real to do, in having an adventure and a mystery and hopefully a villain he could punch. He could finally protect Tony from something other than himself. It was entirely selfish, but Steve had long ago realised there was a part of him that was inherently so.

How else would he justify keeping his feelings a secret from Tony? 

There was something about this room, Steve realised. It didn’t _look_ right. The other rooms all gave off that ghastly green colour, but this one was different. It was almost red. It was difficult to tell, the doors all being a deep brown, but there was a reddish light coming from the crack beneath it. It wasn’t even a light – it was the very atmosphere, the particles in the air all aglow with a sense that something behind that door was bad news.

Steve would have to come back, because at that moment, he heard the bell to wake the hospital up. Letting out an exhale, he turned to look at the door one final time before making his way to the nearest staircase. He would have to come back that night: Tony would be awake soon, and Steve wanted to see him. His mind tried to rationalise it (old habit) – he’d be able to see Tony’s medication up close – but the rest of him was weary of deceit. He wanted to see Tony because it was Tony and he loved him; there was no other reason for it. 

Steve yearned for sleep in a way he didn’t realise he would. He longed for the blissful escape sleep would bring him, if he could only close his eyes and drift off. The reprieve from nightmares was a relief, but dreams were something he missed like the way he missed the sensation of the wood of a paintbrush in his fingers. Even as a child, he’d had awfully vivid dreams; the serum hadn’t changed that. He wanted to dream, to be in another realm better than this one currently was.

He saw Tony blinking awake and wondered what his dreams were made of.

Steve stood by the window, observing as Tony looked around the room. A hand came up and rubbed at his eyes as they fluttered rapidly. His hair was all over the place, as expected; Tony no longer did anything to make it look presentable, and none of the nurses seemed to care about appearances. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, squinting at Steve in a way that filled him with wary hope.

“Morning.” Tony said it with a question mark on the end. He was still looking at Steve as though he couldn’t quite make him out; Steve knew Tony needed glasses, but not what power they were.

“Good morning,” Steve said in a cheery tone, one that had always gotten him a dark look accompanied by a muttered comment about morning people. This time there was silence as Tony’s gaze lingered. “How do you feel?” 

Tony didn’t say anything, instead slowly manoeuvring into a sitting position. With his legs crossed and his hair tousled, he looked like a boy in his twenties. 

Steve, sensing he wouldn’t be receiving anything, continued, “Tony, listen. I was down in the basement last night and I found all kinds of things you need to know about. I knew this place was off, but now I’ve more or less confirmed it. There’s this whole cabinet full of weird shit and a door _I_ can’t through! I think we—”

“I had a dream last night,” Tony interrupted. His voice was paper thin. He was looking in Steve’s direction, but his eyes went through Steve to somewhere beyond. “So real. We were in this garden. In the dream I knew it was one we’d built together, because I promised you we would, remember? We didn’t do much, really. Just spent time together. It was peaceful. Nothing like our usual outings ever were.

“And then I woke up and I saw you except—it _isn’t_ you, is it?” Tony now turned his bright eyes to Steve; if he’d been a lesser man, a weaker man, Steve would’ve turned his gaze Tony’s the glistening stare.

“Tony, you have to believe me.” His words at this point felt repetitive and pointless. “I’m not a hallucination. I’m right here.” Steve was tired of Tony’s grief, and the admission – even to himself – sat uncomfortably within him. He was tired of feeling the overwhelming sense of guilt every time he looked at his friend in this place and saw an empty husk, all because of him. 

Tony continued as though he hadn’t heard him speak. “I kept thinking about it, in the weeks after. What it would’ve been like if I’d told you. Because now I’ll never _know_ , and that’s worse than rejection and awkwardness. But then I think, no, it wasn’t. Because we were friends, and that was more than enough, and it was selfish of me to even feel what I did.”

Steve’s brain had been boosted from the serum. Steve could fill in the blanks, the gaps, the spaces in between. Steve could feel that horrible dawning realisation as his mind told him what Tony was leaving out of his words, even now after everything that had happened.

Tony barked a harsh laugh, jarring Steve’s thoughts. “This whole thing is like my subconscious’ morbid idea of a date,” he said. His fingers rubbed at his eyes, but Steve had yet to see any real tears break free. “You always here with me. Maybe in another life I’d be a different sort of Merchant of Death.” He spat out the name with more energy than Steve had seen from him in days.

He didn’t know what to say in the face of that bitterness now. He didn’t know how to tell Tony that, in another life, and perhaps even this one, he would’ve gotten up the courage to say those life altering six words to his friend, and felt that pounding of his heart as Tony maybe said yes, and then gotten to experience that rush of euphoria as he would plan their first date.

“This is the most perverted of all my fantasies.” The words were muffled by Tony’s hands as they covered his face, fingers pressing into his eye sockets. “You’re _dead_ and _this_ is how I remember you? A lot of people have died on me, y’know, but you’re the first one to come back like this. I don’t know what it means. Why can I see you and not them?”

Tony finally stood, walking to the bathroom sink. He splashed water on his face, shivering as the icy droplets hit his skin. 

“I’m different from the rest of them, Tony.”

“I _know_ that,” Tony snapped, a complete shift from his docile mood. “Don’t you think I fucking know that? Of course you’re different! You’ve always been different!”

“I…” Steve had completely lost track of the situation. He tried to steer it back to someplace he recognised. “Not like that. Not superhuman kind of different. I’m _alive_ , not dead.”

Tony snorted, darkened eyes boring holes into Steve. “That’s not the kind of different I meant, either, sugar.” He sauntered over to Steve, waving his toothbrush like how Steve had seen him flourish a screwdriver, spraying bits of toothpaste and water. He trailed it down Steve’s chest, just short of touching him and ruining the illusion, and even though Steve couldn’t feel it, he shivered.

“Tony,” Steve said. “What’re you doing?”

“Well, if you’re my fantasy Captain America, then surely you can pull out moves for me.” Tony was giving him that look that Steve had seen before, on TV and in nightclubs. He'd never thought – or rather, _hoped_ would be a better word – that it’d be directed his way. The sultry glint Tony was sporting was everything out of his darkest desires, the ones he kept hidden and shoved in the back of his mind. He swallowed hard.

“Tony, I’m incorporeal,” Steve said. His voice was suddenly high-pitched. “You don’t want to do this. Not like this.”

“Steve, honey,” Tony said with a silky smile. He advanced on Steve slowly, prowling forward. “You don’t know me very well if you think I don’t want this.”

Steve was beginning to get that. “Okay. Tony. _I_ don’t want this.” It wasn’t even a lie – he _didn’t_ want Tony like this, unable to touch him and with Tony so obviously trying to bypass his grief. He wouldn’t be another vice.

Tony stopped immediately, face twisting. “Figures.” He laughed, a shrill sound. “It figures that not even my hallucinated Steve would want me.”

Steve made a grated noise, trying to reign in his frustration. “Of course I _want_ you! Just not like _this_!”

“Not like what? Not deranged, crazy?” Tony was pacing around the room, toothbrush still in hand. Steve distantly wondered whether he’d spit out the toothpaste. “You don’t have to lie to me. Say what you will.”

“I don’t want you while I’m still a ghost and you’re still so…” Steve waved a hand to indicate Tony, who was staring at him shaking his head, “sad. Drugged up. Once I come back, I’ll do it properly. I’ll ask you out on a date and—” The words caught in his throat. He couldn’t utter them, not here in this place. He couldn’t let his dreams of their future spill out in these rancid halls, in this depressing room with no air to breathe.

“ _Stop it!_ ” Tony shouted at him. “You don’t get to do that, not like this. You can’t just come here and follow me around and say stuff like that and confuse me even when I know you’re gone – I _watched_ you die, I saw your body in the morgue, and I looked at all the stats. You’re _gone_ , Steve. So take a hint and _leave_ and stop making me worse.” His hands were in his hair, covering his ears. He closed his eyes. “You’re making me worse. If you really are Steve, then you would let me get over you and live whatever is left of my life.”

Steve left.

END OF PART 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so,,,,, the 'end of part 1' thing doesn't really mean anything, i guess (so don't worry about having to wait extra long for the next chapter or having to go to another fic or anything it's all in here and the next chapter's gonna be up next week =) ). it just felt fitting to see it as two halves when i got to this point (it's a real tipping point tbh) and much easier to write with it separated, bc the word doc was hardcore glitching by the time i got to here lol ~~and also after reading les mis and great expectations my brain was like BOOKS THAT SEEM LIKE ONE BUT ARE ACTUALLY SMALLER BOOKS OMG~~.


	6. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve makes an unexpected friend, and a conversation with Wanda leads Tony to a revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Tony is pretty high on meds at the start, and there's also a brief line where he recalls being waterboarded but it's not explicit.

**_“One owes respect to the living. To the dead, one only owes the truth.”_ **

  


One moment Steve was there, and the next he had just vanished. There was no puff of smoke, no illusion to play tricks on Tony’s eyes. Had this been on a roll of film, there would be nothing between the photo of Steve standing there in front of him, and the one of an empty room. 

Tony ran a hand over his face, trying to compose himself. He had no idea how long the conversation had gone for, but there was no doubt in his mind that someone had heard. Someone always heard. They would probably go and tell Croirac, and Croirac would probably prescribe him something, and this time it might actually work.

He couldn’t help but feeling a distant sense of sick pride, hidden amongst the high emotions of the last five or ten minutes. Maybe confronting his hallucination had been the key, this whole time. His fake Steve couldn’t very well keep up the illusion of the doting and living friend if Tony refused to believe it. Now with the help of the medication, he might actually be gone. 

Tony refused to give way to the pit in his stomach at the thought. Instead, he tried the door handle, and found it unlocked – someone had come and unlocked it, and then left without entering.

He’d probably get into trouble if he went down to the breakfast hall without taking his pills.

He didn’t really care.

Tony turned the doorknob, the old-fashioned doorknob that had the sharp angles of ages past, that always left little grooves in Tony’s palm that Tony couldn’t feel unless he looked down. The walk down was silent – everyone else was either in their rooms or already eating.

There was a time when Tony would’ve taken this opportunity to explore the mansion, to go upstairs and take a peek at his files in the doctor’s office, to sneak into the basement and see what they didn’t want him to see. There was a time when the thought didn’t bring a wave of exhaustion over him. Now, the idea of doing anything other than going to breakfast and eating didn’t even cross his mind.

He grabbed a plate from the long table, serving himself a single omelette and one slice of apple. His hand was shaking slightly when it took a fork from the cutlery section. Steve usually accompanied him to breakfast, sometimes pointing out what was behind the various doors they passed. He would give Tony that look when he saw the amount of food Tony was putting on his plate, sometimes crouching directly inside the table so only his head popped out like he was part of the food, leaving Tony with no way to ignore him.

Sometimes Tony would smile at it. Those days, Steve would smile back and that would set alight a candle in Tony’s toes, in the tips of his fingers, the only times he truly felt those extremities now. Sometimes Tony would try to, but know he hadn’t quite managed it by the look on Steve’s face as he tried to fake a smile to hide the concern. Those days, he was more adamant about the amount of toast Tony ate, the number of grapes he grabbed. 

Today, there was no Steve to stop Tony from eating as little as he wanted.

He usually sat down near either Wanda or Mavis. Maybe-Wife-Murderer Jim was an interesting one, too, when he had the need for a change of scene. There was something about being around crazy people that made you forget the amount of crazy everyone thought you were. 

Now, he took a seat near the window. Seconds after he’d placed his plate down and taken a sip of water, a nurse appeared at his elbow. Tony didn’t even turn around to face them.

“Mr Stark? These are for you.”

A small tray of pills was placed next to his plate. Tony looked at it emotionlessly. For once, the pills weren’t all the same. There was the usual ones he took – he couldn’t quite remember how many there had been before – and then a fun orange and white striped one. It was double the size of the others. Tony wondered if it’d taste just as bitter if he were to rest it on his tongue.

“Mr Stark, I need to see you take them,” the nurse said.

Tony obediently poured the pills into his palm and shoved them into his mouth, head tipping back. Grabbing the glass of water, he swallowed a few mouthfuls. 

“Gone,” he said in a voice that echoed strangely in his ears.

“Good. I’ll leave you to finish breakfast.”

After the nurse had left, someone sat down beside Tony. Their plate, like his, had scarcely any food on it. Tony wondered what they did with what must be a shittonne of leftovers after every meal.

“You didn’t take your drugs in your room?”

Tony turned, making eye contact with Mavis. She had a deep purple light around her that Tony hadn’t noticed before. It fluctuated at times, capturing his attention. 

“Stark!” 

Tony jumped. “Sorry. Got distracted.” 

“I could tell.” Mavis squinted at him. “The fuck do they have you on…”

He shrugged. “Dunno, but it looked fun. W’s colourful.” His voice was beginning to slur again. He didn’t try to fight it.

“Alrighty.” Mavis didn’t say anything else for the rest of their meal. Tony didn’t mind. He was too busy staring at the waves of colour pulsing around her hair, a halo above her head.

He resisted the urge to reach out for it, see how it would feel travelling through his fingers.

And then he blinked, and he was sitting on a couch in the common room, doing absolutely nothing. Looking around, he could see a nurse putting books back onto the shelves, and someone rocking themselves back and forth in front of the empty fireplace. Tony had no idea how he got here, but now he could see a faint red shimmer around his leg and it made everything else go away.

Touching it placed the tip of his finger a few centimetres away from his knee. He couldn’t feel anything, but that was okay. He didn’t feel the clothes touching his body, either.

“Tony?” the nurse called. It was the same one who supervised the common room, had been here since his first day, but Tony couldn’t for the life of him remember her name. “You doing okay? Do you want something to read, maybe?”

“I—” Tony cleared his throat. “I think I need t’ go to the bathroom. I’ll grab a book wh’n I ge’ back?”

“Of course, hon.” With that, the nurse turned back to the shelves, humming to herself.

Tony walked through a door situated at the back of the common room, leading to the lavatories. He couldn’t _think_ straight. Heading straight for a sink, he splashed his face with icy water, gasping when it hit his face like a million shards of glass. Placing his hands on either side of the basin, Tony stared down, watching the water drain away.

He could hear his breathing as it bounced off the mirror and into his ears. He could hear the blood pumping in his veins. He could hear the lights as they sizzled and flickered above his head. He could hear the silence as it moved around him, always. His fingers dragged under the pressure of gravity.

Tony let out an uncontrolled laugh. He was high as fuck. He didn’t even know if he’d ever been on anything so wild in his youth. He would probably convince himself he could hear colours in a few minutes or hours.

The doctors mightn’t’ve told him the side effects of the drugs he was on, but they seemed to be working: he hadn’t seen Steve all day.

* * *

Steve, in other words, was prowling around the grounds wishing he could take his frustration out on a punching bag. A few Doombots wouldn’t go amiss, either. Part of him longed to go back inside and check up on Tony – he hadn’t seen him since he’d been told to leave that morning, and didn’t plan on going back until he had some more answers; he couldn’t predict how Tony would react to seeing him again. 

Steve had no idea how to prove his existence. He’d tried giving Tony information about the mansion, playing on his desire of knowledge, and then he’d tried appealing to his responsibility as an Avenger (which had backfired marvellously), and now… he couldn’t deny that Tony was _right_ : he really was making him worse. What sort of a friend was he – what sort of a _leader_ was he – if he placed himself over Tony?

But there were more sinister powers in action here than either of them knew, and Steve was determined to get this part of his job right. 

He just wished he had someone to talk to. 

Steve had only just jogged to the edge of the estate and was turning around when he heard a low whicker. Turning, he saw a horse – bay gelding, probably a Quarter horse, to be precise. He was staring right at Steve, tufts of grass sticking out of his mouth. 

Despite himself, Steve smiled. Walking over, he held out a hand. “Hello,” he said in an even tone. He didn’t bring his hand any closer, on the off chance the horse spooked at the lack of touch, but the bay nodded his head and Steve jumped as he felt the sensation of his breath against his fingers, whiskers around his nose tickling his palm.

From up close, Steve could see that his newfound friend was too small to be a horse, standing at roughly twelve hands. He waited until the bay pony had deemed him unthreatening before stroking him, revelling at the touch. It’d been much too long since he’d touched something _real_. Part of him wanted to stand there forever, just petting the creature.

“Bacchus!” a voice called. The bay’s head whipped up from where it’d been hanging as Steve had carded his fingers through his long mane, turning to the other end of the paddock where a stablehand stood with a halter and lead rope in one hand and—

‘Bacchus’ took off at a slow trot. Steve leaned with his elbows on the fence to watch as he sniffed at the stablehand’s other hand – the one hidden behind his back – to finally emerge victorious with a piece of carrot.

He could hear bits and pieces of the young girl talking to the pony as she fixed the halter onto him. “…new visitors! You’ll make lots of new friends…here because they’re a bit sick…be the best and you’ll get loads of carrots…” Without anything to really do but go back in that dingy house, Steve walked through the fence he’d just been leaning against and followed them.

This was an area of the hospital grounds he hadn’t even known existed, despite it not being very far removed from the mansion and its gardens. He wondered if the institute had any other therapy animals. He was personally partial to the occasional puppy he’d been exposed to during mandatory therapy sessions, but he knew that Tony was a cat person.

The girl led Bacchus to a large area by the side of the stables, tying the lead rope to a post positioned a bit higher than his withers. Steve could see the grooming kit beside her.

A few moments of wandering through the stables found him sitting in an empty stall, hands lying limp between his raised knees. There was something soothing about the scent of freshly laid straw and that horse smell that put Steve more at ease than he’d been since they’d arrived at this hellhole. He stared unseeing at the wall in front of him, mind kept replaying the last few moments.

Tony…Tony _loved_ him. He was _in love_ with him.

Steve had absolutely no idea how to feel about any of this; it was a double-edged sword now. Tony had apparently loved him for _years_ , and Steve had loved Tony for years as well, and this whole time, both of them had been absolute cowards. Once upon a time, he would’ve gone immediately to Jan to talk things out – Jan always had the best advice, even if it didn’t feel like it at the time, and she’d known Tony since they were kids – but now, he had no idea what to do about this revelation.

Steve couldn’t remember the first time he’d realised he was in love with Tony Stark, but he could vividly recall how _right_ it’d felt to have Tony beside him for so long. He could remember how it’d felt seeing Iron Man stripped of his armour, left in nothing but (Steve still, after all these years, flushed slightly as his eidetic memory replayed the image) that tiny red thong.

He could remember every little thing that Tony had done that had gotten under his skin like nothing else had before. He could still feel the anger that coursed through his veins every time Tony lied and acted brashly, every time he made a decision without telling the rest of them (or _Steve_ ), every time he was stubborn and a control freak and showed the negative credit of his survival instincts.

Tony had always been it for him.

His was the first voice Steve had heard when he’d woken up in this new world, his friend and confidant and the anchoring arm around his shoulders. Tony had slowly but surely become Steve’s _home_. It didn’t matter whether they were in the Mansion, whether they were in a sleazy motel working undercover, whether they were in an asylum. If Tony was there, then it was where Steve belonged, beside him.

Steve rubbed his eyes, suddenly more tired than he’d ever been. There was something psychological about sleep that made even the worst things seem slightly better when you awoke, and good lord, did Steve want to close his eyes and take a few minutes away from this mess. He was slightly nauseas as well, for some reason, a tiny tugging in his gut.

The door of the stall opened up, and Steve could see himself about to be smothered by a horse. He got up with a muffled grunt, not yet done with his tiny meltdown, before walking out of the stall.

Something about this place made him want to _stay_ , almost to the point where he wanted to go anywhere but the main building. Maybe he was seeing things where there was nothing to be seen, or maybe this was his brain’s attempt at finding something else to focus on that wasn’t Tony, but it was almost as though there was something repelling about the mansion that went beyond a natural disinclination to be in an asylum.

* * *

Tony was playing Spider Solitaire on the ancient computer they had in the common room. The nurse hadn’t even hesitated before letting him on, which probably meant that it wasn’t wired up to anything. He’d check, but he was having trouble enough concentrating on the bright screen as it was without trying to look at the small symbols around the outskirts of it.

“Yeesh,” a familiar voice said. “I thought only kids played that.”

“Mavis,” Tony said. He almost smiled at hearing her voice; he could see the Pepper in her bluntness. “Where’ve you been?”

“Voluntary session,” Mavis responded, pulling up a chair and sitting on it backwards, chin resting on the backrest. Her face was paler today, faint scars visible by her hairline.

“Can’ focus on Mineswe’per,” Tony told her. He stared at the screen unblinking, leaning back on his chair. His eyes ached a little, but his arms weighed too much to lift up.

The computer was _old_. He could hear it whirring away, the sound rising and falling for no apparent reason as he continued to click on the cards so they would sort themselves out – the perfect way of feeling accomplished when you had, in fact, done nothing at all.

The screen was showered in confetti, and Tony realised that he’d finished yet another game.

“Here,” Mavis said.

There was a hand at the back of his head, and a white towel placed over his eyes. After the initial startle at the sensation, Tony settled into it, melting into the rough fabric of the towel damp with hot water. Mavis increased pressure over his eyelids, practically a massage of its own. His eyes breathed a sigh of relief.

“Tha’s—” The pressure was suddenly too much, and Tony tried to jerk his head back but it was met with Mavis’ forceful hand. Tony’s breath quickened, and there was a distant, distant train of thought in the far vestiges of his brain that wanted to throw him back to another day years upon years ago when a different man had held him down in a barrel of water with a different blindfold around his eyes.

The weight over his eyelids disappeared just as quickly as it’d come, the towel disappearing. Tony gasped slightly, blinking white spots away as his eyes focused.

“Sorry,” Mavis said nervously, peering at him. “I didn’t realise when to stop.”

Tony gave her a small smile, the best he could manage. “Don’ worry ‘bout it.”

She was just about to open her mouth to say something else, wringing the towel between her hands, when a voice spoke sharply from behind them.

“Mavis.” Tony turned around to see Dr Vandran standing there, outfitted in another pristine lab coat with a clipboard in hand.

Mavis stood up. “I’ll catch you later,” she told him, tapping his shoulder lightly with a fist.

“He your doct’r?” Tony asked, nodding to the doorway Vandran had just disappeared into.

“Yup,” Mavis said, popping the ‘P’. “He has cold fingers.” She sauntered off out of the common room, hands shoved deep into her pockets.

Tony watched her go. There was something that was bugging him, but he couldn’t for the life of him get up any sort of energy to think about it any longer. He placed the incident in (he hoped) the back of his mind and turned back to the computer screen.

Maybe this time he’d try out Pinball.

* * *

Snooping, Steve reflected, was much easier when you were incorporeal and there were no cameras or sensors of any kind in the entire building. For a moment he envied Stephen’s ability to be able to leave behind his body to travel around, before recalling the sort of villains he faced.

He’d much rather his enemies be ones he could punch and lock behind standard prison bars.

Steve found himself reaching to his ear for his comms more and more frequently. He missed the team with a vengeance he hadn’t ever known before. He wanted to talk to someone about anything else that wasn’t his current predicament. Hell, he’d sit through one of Bruce and Jarvis’s soap operas at this point.

Doors no longer meant a thing. Locks didn’t matter. Steve made his way through the rooms of every doctor there was, efficiently making his way around the upper floor. He ignored people as he passed through them. He had a duty to scope out this place, and he couldn’t let a few arguments and life-altering revelations get in the way of that.

Steve also had a song stuck in his head, to make matters worse. He didn’t think he would miss his phone this much, but he’d grown used the pleasures of the twenty-first century.

He strolled down the hall into the offices of the three head psychologists and raised an eyebrow as he took in the differences. It was _very_ evident that there was either a pay gap or a difference in rank, because the sizes and extravagance of them varied wildly.

_I tell myself that I can’t hold out forever._

_I said there is no reason for my fear._

The second office had a _chandelier_ in the centre, which although not uncommon for a mansion like this, was massive. The room had a much higher ceiling, and the chandelier was entirely crystal with bronze trimmings, pearls studded upon it artistically. As Steve walked farther into the room, he couldn’t help but think of Avengers Mansion – not that it still had its showpieces such as the ones displayed in this room. Jarvis had long ago put away anything of excessive value. The windows had large, heavy drapes covering them; only one was pulled back by a tasselled tie-back. Steve wandered over to look outside through the stained glass.

This room was at the very centre of the mansion, he noted. It must be – the architecture of the garden and the way this room was designed all indicated to it. The window faced out to the driveway that they had arrived by. Steve could barely see the gates in this light, closed and oppressive, standing stark against the lush green backdrop.

_And even as I wander,_

_I’m keeping you in sight_.

Steve walked through the walls behind the bookcase and checked underneath the mahogany desk for any hidden compartments or rooms. He came up empty-handed and was the most disappointed he’d ever been in a mansion. _Even Doom has secret rooms._

There was a pitcher of water accompanied by a crystal decanter on an ornate coffee table in the centre (could it even be called a coffee table if it had wood-carved legs and leaf patterns etched into it? If it had a panel of velvet on each side?). Steve hadn’t paused to ponder over it until now, but he was itching for a glass of water. Not because he was thirsty, but for the simple humanness of it. He missed _living_.

_You’re a candle in the window,_

_On a cold, dark winter’s night._

There was a pile of paper on the desk, but none of it seemed particularly relevant to the mission. Steve, for absolutely no reason other than pure boredom and curiousity, sat down in the massive leather chair and started to skim through them.

_Why is the sunny side always up? Explaining the spatial mapping of concepts by language use._

Steve raised an eyebrow at the title, thrown off for a moment. It all seemed so… _mundane_. Ordinary. 

But what had he expected at a mental hospital that Pepper Potts herself had picked out? It wasn’t as though there’d be papers on lobotomy sitting open on the desk.

Despite himself, the abstract of the paper drew him in, explaining briefly about the connotations words and their associations had on the orientation of one’s attention in terms of location. Steve committed the title to memory to look up later – he couldn’t read beyond a few lines of the introduction. There would definitely be a way to apply it to Avengers training; when _hadn’t_ they needed to process things faster?

Just as he’d gotten to the last of the papers strewn around the desk, the door flew open.

Steve jumped up, instantly alert, before remembering that he was incorporeal. He settled back down slightly, part of him still in the mindset that he would have to fight his way out of this room. It was strange – he’d heard the bell calling for dinner just moments ago (and been shocked to look out the window once again to find that dusk had fallen).

The man – Vandran, Steve recalled from the introductions on their first day here – was muttering something under his breath as he walked into the room, leaving the door ajar.

Steve reasoned that he had a fairly decent relationship with whoever’s office this was – and _why_ did the doors not have nameplates or labels of any sort?

“…fucking idiot, leaving me to be his errand boy.” Vandran paused at the sight of the decanter, walking over to a silver side tray that sat beside the bookcase. He grabbed a crystal glass from it and poured himself bourbon. “As if he’s more qualified than me.” 

Steve glanced up at the wall showcasing the office owner’s awards and degrees, all of which were from various Ivy League universities. He resisted the urge to move aside as Vandran came to stand beside him, messily shifting through the papers.

“Keeps a desk like a teenager, the bastard,” he cursed.

Vandran pulled a key out of his pocket, bending down to unlock the middle drawer. Steve leaned forward eagerly to check out the contents.

There was yet another stack of folders here, with a stapler and packets of paperclips. Steve couldn’t help but feeling disappointed, and then guilty at the disappointment – what did he want, exactly? For Tony to be in a fishy, dangerous hospital? He should hope that the room he’d been locked out of was just a coincidence; maybe it was built on hallowed ground, or perhaps the iron content in the soil there was higher than the rest of the estate. 

He’d been hanging around Clint for far too long if all he could think about was a conspiracy.

Vandran slammed the drawer shut and went to the one beneath it. Steve peered down once again, albeit with a little less enthusiasm this time.

The contents of the drawer were much different. There was a pair of scissors – the type people used to cut fish – a single shoe small enough to fit a toddler, and a few files labelled with names, none of which Steve recognised.

Vandran, seeming to have found what he was looking for, shut the drawer and then locked them both up. He placed his unfinished glass on the table, slamming it down hard enough that the liquid inside spilt a little, spraying onto the paper it was placed upon. Steve let out a sigh at the pure pettiness of the act before following Vandran out of the room. Here was finally a character interesting enough to shadow.

* * *

Tony held a crumpled letter in his hand as he took his usual stroll in the gardens after dinner. The sky was pitch black, with no hint of a moon and absolutely no stars visible. It was cold and lonely, but all he could think about were the contents of the letter in his hand.

His mind was the clearest it’d been all day – the drugs he was on were ones he only took once, because of their sheer intensity. His body wouldn’t be able to handle more doses. Hell, it could barely deal with the one.

The letter was technically from Pepper, but it was made up of ten different handwritings and was about three pages long, A4, and double-sided. Parts were redacted – the people at the hospital meticulously went through the letters coming in to ensure no one sent debilitating messages and worsened conditions – but not as much as there would’ve been had Pepper not read through every piece of the long-winded policies before signing them.

 _Dear Tony,_ it had begun. _I hope you’ve settled in. It’s been about three weeks now, and as per your request_ (Tony had chuckled slightly at the pointed remark) _we haven’t signed up to the visit sessions this week._ _We’re grateful to be getting a chance to write to you, but we wish you’d_ (there was a rough pen mark beneath this line, as though the writing utensil had been snatched, and the handwriting here became more slanted, less cursive; half of Tony’s papers in MIT had been riddled with it) _give us more than half a paragraph saying “everything’s great, leave me alone”_.

Jan had started off one of the paragraphs halfway down the page: _What’re you eating? Is it gross, hospital food, or is it decent_ (change in handwriting to block letters – Clint) _rich asshole food?_ (Yet another change in the next sentence, back to Jan; Clint must’ve been banned from the letter because his writing didn’t appear again) _I’m getting hives thinking about what they’re making you wear… I could definitely design a mental institution look._

Carol’s handwriting showed up on the second page. _Everything’s fine here. You have nothing to worry about – all the villains seem to have gone into hiding. All we’ve had to deal with are the usual Thursday messes. I’m not sure if you have the news there, but one time a giant_ [redacted]. (Handwriting change to Thor’s spidery scrawl) _Twas truly one for the history books, my friend! I shall regale you of the tale over stuffed turkey once you return!_

Natasha took over after that, her tiny cursive meaning that she fit in a lot in a small space. She gave him a detailed overview of the team, similar to Carol but with much more detail to the semantics, and finished with _we miss you, Tony. It’s not the same without you here_ , she went on to add _. I know you, and I know how strong you are. You can pull yourself out of this._

Natasha’s was followed by shorter messages from Jessica Jones and Jessica Drew, and then there were even a few sentences from Peter. Tony hadn’t heard from him in weeks – the last time they’d spoken, it was while taking down Mole Man. Hank, Bruce, Luke Cage… the letter was peppered with handwriting from the whole Avengers team, including the reserve members and some retired ones as well.

There was even a line from Jarvis, whose writing hadn’t changed since Tony had been a boy sent off to boarding school. Seeing it now in this letter tossed him back through the decades, to sitting in a cramped dorm hearing a loud knock at the door and that _whoosh_ as a letter was shoved under the crack.

_Anthony, I hope you are doing well. Remember, you have family here waiting for you to get back._

It was in right at the bottom, just before Pepper signed her name off with a massive yet elegant love heart in the silvery pen she loved. 

Tony had been unable to keep a smile off his face the whole way through. Something in his chest had warmed, that hollow, indecisive spot that kept questioning why everyone stuck around. Even now, as he walked outside in the cold night, he smiled. The letter had come at the perfect time; it was that ray of light that brightened up what had increasingly been one of the more difficult days here at the institution.

Tony could now write back to Pepper and tell her that Steve was gone. He didn’t know how he felt about that, but he knew that they would all breathe a sigh of relief.

They could all move on.

The Avengers had lost two of their heavy hitters in a tiny span of time, and even though Jan and Carol had told Tony to not think about it – that they had a number of reserves – it pestered at him in the far recesses of his mind. 

“It’s chilly out here tonight,” a dreamy voice said, walking up to him. 

“Hello, Wanda,” Tony responded, glad to have company. Then he looked sideways at her, and did a double take at the sight of her in a sleeveless, flowing dress, hands hanging limp at her side. “Jesus, no wonder you’re cold! Here.” He still had no idea how she got away without wearing the hospital garb – even Peter donned it.

Tony shrugged out of his robe, intending to hand it to her, but Wanda shook her head, giving him a strange smile.

“I’m fine, Tony,” she said. “I like the cold. It reminds me of my home.”

“Are you sure?” Tony could see both their breaths in the air.

Wanda nodded.

Tony sighed, and pulled the robe back over his shoulders and shoving his hands deep into his armpits. They stood there on the balcony, watching the lights from the lamps reflect on the lake.

“Where is your shadow?” Wanda asked. “I’ve never seen you without him.”

“My…shadow?” Tony said in confusion. 

“The big blond man.”

Tony’s heart stopped. _“Steve?”_ he rasped out. His chest was pounding, hands instantly clammy. “Wanda, you can see Steve?”

Wanda tilted her head at him. Her long hair flowed in the biting breeze. “Of course I can,” she said. “Like you can see my boys.”

“But,” Tony searched for the right words, “your boys aren’t _real._ ” Had he ever mentioned his hallucinated Steve to Wanda? He didn’t think so.

Wanda shrugged. “If you could see them knowing about them beforehand, then does that not make them real?”

Tony gaped at her, running his hands through his hair agitatedly. “Oh god,” he whispered. “You could see Steve?” His face was drained of all blood. He was an Avenger. Strange, _impossible_ things happened to them. He knew this. _God, Steve._

Wanda didn’t seem to notice. “Sometimes I’ll avoid taking my medication,” she said. Her hands were pale as they rested on the stone railing. “I don’t like to go too long without seeing them.”

Tony’s mind was reeling. “I sent him away,” he said in horror. “Wanda, I sent him away. I told him to leave.”

_What if Steve didn’t come back?_

“Haven’t you seen the way he looks at you?” Wanda asked in genuine surprise. “He won’t be driven away by harsh words, Tony. Don’t worry.”

“I—” Tony’s heart had never beat this fast, this _loud_. Everything began crashing down upon him. He’d— “Oh, God,” he whispered numbly. He’d _told_ Steve. He’d _come onto_ Steve.

Tony slowly sank to the floor, the coldness seeping into his skin through the thin fabric of his trousers. Wanda sank with him, reaching out and placing a hand over his. “Tony?” she said, brows furrowed. “Are you alright?”

Tony barely saw her. All he could think about was _Steve_. Steve, who had stuck by him these last few months, who had seen Tony break down and lose control and become an absolute wreck of a human being. Steve, who had followed Tony to the hospital even though he could’ve gone to Strange, who would’ve seen him instantly, maybe even be able to fix his problem.

 _Steve wasn’t dead_.

Tony let out a hysterical laughter, relief coursing through his veins. “I’m absolutely perfect, Wanda,” he said, impulsively leaning forward and hugging her.

Wanda jumped in surprise, but wrapped her thin arms around him, rubbing his back. She was so cold in his arms that Tony felt the sudden need to wrap her up in a blanket.

“Let’s go inside,” he said. It didn’t matter if Steve didn’t come back, if he never wanted to see Tony again after how Tony had treated him. Tony just needed to contact Pepper, tell her what he’d just learnt, and they’d be able to fix it.

* * *

Vandran was an arrogant piece of work, and not nearly as interesting as Steve had thought he’d be. He’d left the room and walked straight into the office opposite the hall, the remaining one that Steve had to search. Two birds with one stone, really.

Vandran put the files he’d taken onto his own desk – also mahogany – and sat down heavily onto the chair. There was a giant landscape hanging on the wall behind him, a depiction of the mansion. Steve’s eyes traced the paintwork, noting the lack of dust covering it. He’d never really had the chance to paint landscapes, never out in the wilderness for any reason other than a mission, which was a shame. He vowed to go camping after returning from the dead. 

A shrill sound pierced the silence of the room and Vandran jumped in his leather chair. The phone on his desk – one of those modern pieces styled to look old-fashioned – was ringing. Vandran let out a disgruntled sigh and leaned forward to answer it.

“Yes?” he said briskly.

A tinny noise from the other end could be heard, something about a shipment of medical supplies being cancelled. Vandran’s face grew grim and annoyed as Steve watched from the corner of his eye.

Steve was scanning the bookshelf for anything different from the rest of the mansion, but so far there was nothing. Not that he’d expected anything. No one kept books on illicit procedures on a shelf right by the door. He poked his head into the wall behind the shelf, but it was solid wall.

There was nothing for it. He’d have to go and scout around the desk with Vandran sitting there arguing with some employee over the phone.

“I ordered those three months in advance!”

Steve could make out the words from the other end now that he was closer. _“We’re sorry, sir, but when we called the Good Samaritan Mental Institution, they said that no order of the sort had been placed. We had to cancel it.”_

“Why did no one inform me?”

The top of his desk was surprisingly clear. A desk was open, the bottom one of the desk that had two locks. A file (not one that he’d just collected), labelled with a ‘Peter Maximoff’, was lying open. Beneath it, Steve could see one with what he thought was Tony’s name, but he wouldn’t be able to try to touch it until Vandran left. Steve peered over Vandran’s shoulder to read through Peter Maximoff’s.

_“I am calling you now to inform you, sir. You will need to place a private order next time.”_

Horror curdled in Steve’s gut the more he read through the procedures listed on the papers in front of him. _Difficulty to register Forumla X3 due to subject resistance but was completely compliant upon being sedated with the slow release morphine (refer to page 9 for chemical breakdown). Subject did not make a sound, but healing is slowed approximately eightfold from X3 and sedative. Subject will experience paralysis in lower body for another week at current rate._

Vandran slammed the phone down onto the receiver, pushing his chair back and walking out of the room in a flash of movements. Steve barely registered him go, eyes trapped by the explicitly drawn and labelled diagrams on the page. It was accompanied by photographs, each with a timestamp. He was going to be sick.

A post-it note was stuck to it: _Will be out of commission for another month. No need to discuss with WM._

If there was no need to discuss the absence of her brother with Wanda, then that meant that either she was next, or they had her just as drugged up as they did Tony.

Steve needed to get back to Tony. He didn’t know what he was going to do, but he needed to get back to him and try a last-ditch effort at convincing him. If not then…then he’d go to the Sanctum, and hope that they could see him. He could take Bacchus – the city wasn’t very far. If they left in the middle of the night, it’d give them at least six hours until someone checked up on the horses. He hoped, at least.

Steve tried with all his concentration to push the papers back to show Tony’s, but it was no use. His fingers brushed through everything, not even ruffling the pages in the slightest. He let out a stream of curses that would make even Frank Castle raise an eyebrow, before taking off at a run to Tony’s room. He couldn’t waste any more time.

He was so used to getting from one end of the mansion to Tony’s room that he barely registered the amount of walls he was running through, the number of people he left shivering in his wake. He didn’t even notice the tablecloth that flew as he ran by it. 

Steve flew through Tony’s door at full speed, coming to an instant halt inside. It was lucky that Tony hadn’t been changing, or drinking water, or anything really, because he jumped half a mile when Steve entered.

“Tony,” he said, his mind racing enough to make up for the steady heartrate of his heart. “Tony, listen—” 

“Steve,” was all that made its way out of Tony’s mouth before his face crumbled.

Steve watched in shock as he stumbled his way across the room towards him, hand outstretched and reaching towards Steve. It was pure muscle memory to reach back, but just before his hand would have made contact with Tony’s, he hesitated, remembering another day and another breakdown caused by this exact scene.

“Tony, please,” he tried to say, but Tony shook his head.

“I believe you,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “God, Steve, can you forgive me? I’ve been an idiot these last few months, ever since you—” His voice choked before he could say ‘died’.

Steve stared at him. “You…believe me?” he said. Wave after wave of relief was crashing over him, leaving him lightheaded. He almost swayed where he stood. _Thank god, thank god, thank god._

Tony was nodding frantically. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’m…you came back. Even though I—”

Steve interrupted him before he could give that thought another second of life. “Of _course_ I came back,” he said. Once upon a time he would’ve been incredulous about the question, because _of course he would come back_ , but now, after shadowing Tony for so long, he was more understanding. “I’ll _always_ come back, no matter what.” 

“Even from the—the dead, it would seem.” Tony let out a breathy laugh. He was gazing at Steve with a wonder that Steve remembered from their early days in the Mansion, before Tony had gotten over his hero worship. He looked at Steve like he would fall to his knees and prostate himself before him at that very instant. There were dried tear tracks running down his face.

Steve smiled softly. “I don’t think I ever really died, to be honest,” he admitted. 

Tony smiled back at him, even as his eyes filled up. “God, I’m a blubbering mess,” he said, rubbing at them with both hands, trying his best to hide his face from Steve.

“You’re fine,” Steve told him. He was still giddy, adrenaline running high and heightening each and every one of his senses. “You just found out the friend you thought was dead is actually alive. We’ve all been there.”

Tony huffed out a real laugh this time, walking over to the bathroom to use toilet paper to blow his nose. When he came back, he seemed to have gained some semblance of control over himself that Steve hadn’t seen in months. He didn’t know whether to feel relieved or sad that Tony was putting up walls once again.

For better or worse, Steve wanted to see Tony. _(In sickness or in health,_ a part of him thought cynically.) He’d never let something like this happen under the radar, he vowed himself fiercely. Tony’s mental health had somehow fluctuated over the years without notice, but Steve wouldn’t let it happen anymore. He’d be better.

“I need to tell you something,” Steve said. “It’s about Peter. One of the doctor’s here is experimenting on him. Nasty stuff.”

Tony sighed. Dry humour sparked in his eyes as he gazed at Steve with that same look that made Steve shuffle awkwardly, unable to keep eye contact when looking at Tony was like the feedback loop of someone gazing at the sun. “Of course there’s an Avengers mission here,” he said. “Wanda’s brother?”

Steve nodded, coming to sit at the foot of the bed. Tony joined him, leaning on the wall by the head and crossing his legs under him. He’d look almost like a schoolboy, if it weren’t for the thick beard and heavy shadows under his eyes.

Slowly, he spilled everything, from his trips down to the basement late at night to the jog around the estate. Tony blinked at him in surprise when he spoke of not wanting to be away from Tony for extended amounts of time.

“So this door you can’t get through,” Tony began.

“I told you, there’s no physical difference that I can make out,” Steve told him, knowing exactly what Tony was about to say. “I’ll take you there tomorrow night—”

They both paused, looking at each other. There were so many obstacles between the basement and Tony’s quarters that it’d take at least a day to set everything up.

“I’ll have to wean myself off the meds,” Tony said, not looking at Steve.

Steve took a breath. This was it. His chance to show Tony that he was here for him, that he’d always be here for him, that he could lean on Steve and ask for help and Steve wouldn’t judge him or think badly of him for it. He’d failed him once before; he wouldn’t do the same now.

“Are they helping you?” he asked quietly, studying Tony’s face as he waited for an answer.

Tony snorted. “I doubt it,” he said bitterly. “It’s like being drunk. Not even my 20s were this spotty, and I spent that whole decade self-medicating. Hell, I think I even OD-ed a couple times.”

Steve swallowed, wishing Tony wouldn’t speak this cavalierly about his life. “Tony,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“ _You’re_ sorry? What for?”

Steve let out a breath. “You were doing alright before I started trying to communicate with you,” he said. “You were grieving, but you weren’t…” He didn’t know how to say it.

“Flinging myself off every wagon?” Tony filled in. “That’s not on you, Cap. That’s all on me. I should’ve told someone about you. If I’d done that, we might’ve gotten you back sooner.”

There was that strain of self-loathing in his voice that Steve detested with all his being. “It wasn’t your fault,” Steve said. “I should’ve been more sensitive to how you must’ve felt seeing me like that. I should’ve tried something else.” Seeing Tony open his mouth, he added, “And how about we both stop with the what-ifs, and apologising for things we couldn’t help?”

Tony nodded reluctantly. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Steve for more than a second, piercing blue gaze drinking in every part of him. Steve wondered whether they’d get to talking about that other thing tonight. _Love_.

He swallowed, throat suddenly dry. But before he could speak, Tony began to talk.

“We should probably address the elephant in the room,” he said with a nervous laugh, running a hand through his hair. “I definitely did – and said – things that were inappropriate, trying to get you to fuck off—”

Despite himself, Steve cracked a smile at that, and Tony’s shoulders eased slightly. His hands fiddled with the bedsheet as he spoke, and Steve longed to put a hand over Tony’s to still them. 

“I,” Tony’s throat worked, “I don’t know how much of it you understood, partly because I was shouting and partly because I don’t actually remember half the things I said all that clearly, but I want you to know… I should’ve told you this before, you know? That’s one of the things I regretted the most.

“I thought we had time.” He paused for a moment, hands working furiously. “No, I didn’t think that, actually. I wasn’t ever going to tell you, because I figured, why bother?”

Steve’s heart was pounding away in his chest.

“I didn’t want to tell you and make our friendship awkward, because it _would’ve_ been awkward. I don’t think you notice just how much more you touch people than people do in this century, Steve, because that’s just _you_ and the lack of stigma around it, all that jazz. Some days, your hugs are what gets me out of bed in the morning. Pathetic, I know.” He huffed a humourless laugh, eyes trailing downward to focus on his hands.

 _It’s not pathetic_ , Steve wanted to say. He wanted to tell Tony how, after he’d first woken up, talking to Iron Man in the library during late sleepless nights was half of what kept him going. He wanted to tell Tony that if it hadn’t been for his support and his friendship, Steve didn’t know if he’d still be the man he was today. But his mouth was frozen as words spilt from Tony’s.

“And then you died,” it was the first time Tony had said that without stumbling over them, “and it was one of my biggest regrets. That you might’ve died without knowing that you were loved and appreciated and cherished, that there was someone out there who knew your soul and loved you for it. It didn’t matter that I don’t deserve you, that I never will, because it isn’t about me.” Tony looked up now, and there was steely resolve in his eyes, as though he were bracing for something. “So, I’m telling you, because there is no more pretending. I love you now, just as steadily I’ve loved you since the day we found you, and if there’s a life after I die, I’ll love you then, until the damn stars wink out. You saved me, showed me how to live a better life and be a better man, and I owe you a debt I can never hope to repay. A decade, and I haven’t loved any like I’ve loved you.”

Steve was speechless. To his horror, he found his own eyes welling up. He sniffed, and leaned forward until he was within touching distance of Tony.

“I love you,” he said. “I’m not as eloquent as you are, Tony, but I love you and I need you to know that. Everything you said goes for me too. It isn’t a matter of what we think we deserve. Love’s never played by the rules, and this is no one’s game but ours.” Tony was looking at him with a light in his eyes that Steve hadn’t seen in much too long, and he was certain that the tears running down Tony’s face were reflected on his own. “I wish I could kiss you,” he said, raising a hand in vain to Tony’s cheek.

Tony smiled at him, a wondrous daybreak. “This is enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter (or rather, that last conversation with Steve and Tony) is legit the reason for me writing this whole ass fic ~~and it took me like five, six months to actually get to writing it because the gd horse gave me massive writers block~~ , which is pretty ridiculous but I have 0 regrets
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://fanfictiongreenirises.tumblr.com)!


	7. VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yet another mission around the mansion, but this time Tony's with Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you may have noticed that the chapter thing now shows 7/10, and it's because I'm a Fool who can't count apparently bc there are actually 10 chapters to this fic, not 9. So we have two more full chapters after this and then the epilogue.
> 
> Warnings are in the end notes this time bc spoilers.

A few things happened the following morning that were a direct result of the previous night. Tony woke up, and before he’d even opened his eyes or fully lost the haze of sleep, he was seized by an inconceivable fear that the events of the previous day were a dream. He’d had plenty of those; there was no reason for this to be any different.

He must’ve made some sort of sound, because the next thing he heard was, “Tony?”

Tony’s eyes flew open, heart hammering in his chest. “Steve,” he said in relief. Last night, he’d been too shaken by the revelations, numbing drugs still hazily wandering around in his bloodstream. Now, there was nothing but clarity, crystal clear before his eyes.

He just wished his eyes would stop trying to cry at any given moment.

“Good morning,” Steve said. His smile was somewhat worried, as though he feared that Tony might not remember.

“Good morning,” Tony responded, a tentative smile spreading across his lips. He didn’t know how to act around a Steve who was alive, who reciprocated his feelings.

There was a sharp rap at the door, and Tony’s eyes flew to Steve in a panic. Rushing out of bed, he quickly tucked in his undershirt and the front of his shirt into his sleep trousers. 

Wally walked in with a tray and sour face. “Good morning, Mr Stark,” he said in his dulcet tone.

“Morning, Wally,” Tony responded. He didn’t have to fake the wobble in his steps, just as disorientated as he always in the morning was these days. “Got my pills?”

Wally had walked over to the table and placed the tray there. He let Tony pick up the tray, something Tony had insisted upon some time back, and kicked up too large a fuss for them to bother with something as small as not having it handed to him. It _was_ a mental hospital for the wealthy; they had their idiosyncrasies. Tony had never been more grateful for his own bratty behaviour.

He poured the pills into his right palm, scratching his chest with his left. From the corner of his eye, he could see Wally studying him. Steve stood in the corner, nervously watching proceedings, but the second Tony made eye contact with him, he began pounding his hands on the walls, again and again until one of them, for whatever reason, finally made a sound. Wally glanced over.

In one solid movement, Tony tipped his head back and poured the pills so they dropped into his clothes, the undershirt against his arc reactor muffling any noise. His heart was remarkably calm as he reached for the glass, taking a single swallow. It tasted of victory, the first step towards getting his life back. 

Turning to face Wally, he opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out at him. “Happy?”

“Very.” With that, Wally took the tray and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him soundlessly.

Tony looked at Steve, grinning wildly.

But Steve didn’t grin back. “Is it safe to go cold turkey?” he asked. “What about…withdrawal?”

“I’ve only been on these for a few days. I think I should be fine.” And even if he wasn’t, he’d grit his way through it, Tony reasoned. Now that Steve was here, his biggest priorities were getting the two of them out of here and saving the patients from Vandran. They had no time for Tony’s body slowing them down. 

Maybe it was because Tony had been so compliant this whole time, but nothing he did registered any alarm bells in the nurses’ minds – that he could tell. He snuck a plastic knife into his sleeve at breakfast, and ate with a gusto that made Steve’s shoulder relax slightly. He sat with Jim so the difference wouldn’t be so pronounced. 

Tony had forgotten how good food tasted. There were a lot of things he’d forgotten.

It was a struggle to maintain the depressed exterior when, every time he saw Steve, he smiled involuntarily. Steve had to stop talking to him, because he kept almost replying. There were so many things he wanted to _do_. He wanted to hold Steve’s hand.

Even as he went about the day, trying to jumpstart his sluggish brain into working, his train of thought always ended up in the same place. When they got back, and everything was normal again, Tony would take Steve to that small Mexican place that he and Happy had gone to a few months ago. It was out of the way of the business of the main city, one of those little nooks that—

“Mr Stark?” The lady in charge of the kitchen – Betty – was calling his name, and judging by the stares he was getting from everyone around him, this wasn’t the first time.

Tony cleared his throat slightly, blinking rapidly and sitting upright. His mood deteriorated; he’d thought losing time was a thing of the past now that he was no longer taking the medication. “Yes?”

The last thing he remembered was signing up for the gardening session, so he could get a chance to go outside and hopefully talk to Steve more freely. Here, there was every chance that every word uttered would be picked up by someone.

Steve was…Tony couldn’t see Steve. He fought to keep his breathing under control as he frantically scanned the room. Why was he in the dining hall? 

“Lunch was over twenty minutes ago. They’ll be looking for you in the common room.” She stared at him, and Tony knew that if he didn’t move right this instant, she would go get someone else.

They’d probably do another psych eval.

He stood up – he’d been sitting slumped on one of the benches – and for a moment the entire world tipped to its side. Tony braced himself on the table, hoping that the smile he gave Betty was convincing.

“Sorry,” he said to her, squeezing his eyes shut when everything began to spin. “I have no idea what I’m doing here. Side effects, probably.” He gave her a _what can you do_ shrug.

Luckily, Betty seemed perfectly understanding. “Of course,” she said. “You won’t believe the kinds of side effects I’ve seen. Last year, there was a—”

“I’m sorry, I think I’m going to—” Tony stumbled over to the bin by the side of the room, leaning over it and upchucking what felt like the entire contents of his stomach, maybe even his stomach lining and intestines.

When the urge to throw up had finally died down, Tony slumped backwards, skin clammy and shivering. Steve was crouching beside him, eyeing him worriedly. Tony was about to speak when he realised that they weren’t alone: there was another man holding a cup of water next to him, and Tony could make out two pairs of shoes from the corner of his eye.

Tony sighed, reaching for the glass of water. Swishing it around his mouth, he spat out into the bin, thankful that there weren’t any other gawkers watching him spill his guts out.

The same man handed him a tissue. “Mr Stark, Dr Palmer will take you to the hospital wing.”

Tony cracked a smile. “Isn’t this whole place a hospital?”

The man didn’t seem to have a sense of humour. “You will be placed under twenty-four hour observation to ensure your condition does not deteriorate.”

With that, he rose from the floor with a crack of bones, walking out through the door that led to the kitchens. Tony got up, too, still shaky. Steve’s hand went to his elbow automatically, going straight through it. He let out a frustrated breath.

“Right this way,” the woman who Tony took to be Dr Palmer said.

Steve, after receiving an inquisitive glance from Tony, nodded. “She introduced herself the first day. Haven’t really run into her since. The hospital wing is basically on the other side of the mansion, though. It gets more sunlight.”

Tony almost smiled, but then remembered himself and pulled out a neutral face once again. 

The walk to the hospital wing was shorter than he would’ve thought. They only used the main passages, stuffed to the brim with portraits on the walls and vases by the side. Steve was right about one thing: there _was_ more sunlight. Tony had almost forgotten how it felt to be warm; there was something inherently damp about this whole place that had sunk into his bones.

Tony missed Avengers Mansion. It was the first time that thought had crossed his mind, the first time since he’d been booked into this place that he’d _allowed_ it to cross his mind.

The room they entered was oddly reminiscent of the _Harry Potter_ movies, just more lavish. There were rows of beds, each separated by two layers of curtains – one heavy and a deep plum colour, and the other a typical white sheet used in medical rooms. The beds in each of the cubicles were a double, with bedside tables on both sides. Tony wondered how Steve had reacted to it the first time he’d seen it.

* * *

Tony had told Steve he was going to the bathroom, and that there was no need to accompany him. He’d said it with a smile and a brief twinkle in his eyes that Steve had missed. Losing Tony to his bottle, and then to the drugs, had been like losing a limb. 

Steve had basically spent the whole day talking Tony’s ear off. Tony’s hands had been shaking with either the cold or the lack of medication in his system, or _something_ , and Steve had tried to keep him distracted from the physical symptoms. It helped that he hadn’t had anyone actually listening and responding to him in a while; the words spilled out of his mouth with giddiness.

And then he’d heard the kitchen lady call someone over in that low voice that meant there was trouble, but they were trying to keep it under wraps so no one got nervous, and Steve had crossed to the dining hall in an instant to find Tony throwing up everything he’d just eaten that morning – and probably the previous day, judging by the amount.

He shouldn’t have jumped so unquestioningly to Tony not taking any of his medication, because this must’ve been one of the withdrawal symptoms or side effects that Steve had worried about.

But now they were in the hospital wing, and Steve was slowly realising that this was the best outcome they could’ve hoped for.

Tony was lying atop the covers, a hand under his head and one leg swaying off the bed. Had he not had the beard, he would’ve looked like a delinquent teenager. Steve sat down beside him on the other side. They both ignored how little the bed moved in response to Steve.

“I scoped this place out,” Steve said, “and I don’t think they lock the doors at night, since there are nurses in here around the clock. I didn’t really bother to check, obviously, but it makes sense.”

“And none of the ‘rooms’ have doors,” Tony added, voice a low murmur that Steve probably wouldn’t have been able to catch had it not been for the serum. “When life hands you lemons…” 

Steve smiled down at him, and Tony gave an answering one in response. He’d missed his partner in crime. “I say you do your best to seem sicker than you are so they keep you here for another night. I need tonight to scope out the place so we can sneak to the basement without getting caught. I think I have an escape route figured out, though.” 

“Bacchus?”

Steve nodded. “I’m assuming you know how to ride?”

“Course I do.” Tony changed position so he was now curled up on his side, facing Steve. “I haven’t been in a while. We should go on a trail ride some time.”

Steve mirrored his position. He could almost pretend they were in Tony’s bedroom in the Mansion, that there wasn’t a person being tortured right below them. That they weren’t stuck in a monitored facility with no immediate way to call for help. “It can be our first date.”

Tony’s face softened. “I’d like that,” he said. “I was going to take you to this little Mexican restaurant. You’d like it. It—”

“Yes,” Steve told him. “Anything you pick is an automatic yes from me. We can have two first dates.” 

There was life in Tony’s eyes today. Steve couldn’t help but thank any and all higher powers that he’d somehow been able to snap Tony out of his funk. The deep, deep shadows were still present under his eyes, dark enough to look like bruises, but now that Tony no longer walked around looking like all that was left of him was a hollow shell, Steve knew that he could walk away from this relatively unscathed. They were going to be fine.

Tony fell asleep at some point as they murmured to each other about everything and nothing. His voice had quickly gone dry and raspy, not used to speaking so much, and after a while Steve had taken to telling war tales. Tony’s breaths grew deep, and Steve slowly moved away from the bed.

He was their main source of intel; it was time Captain America took over.

It was dark outside, but no one had lit any lights. There was something eerie about the quiet, empty hospital wing as Steve made his way to the only source of brightness that he could see. It was a small room, with windows from about halfway to the roof. There were drapes drawn over them now, which Steve found rather irresponsible of them: what if Tony suddenly had a seizure in the middle of the night?

Voices were coming from inside the room, not bothering to be kept hushed. Steve walked through the wall and appeared almost inside another person. He hastily moved away, hoping they wouldn’t notice the random cold spell that had taken over their body.

“Belinda, of course I respect their rights!” Palmer was saying. “But you know as well as I do that the only reason for him being sick is because he skipped out on a dose.” She held up a hand when the woman opposite her tried to speak. “He’s been on this medication for almost a week now, has never shown any signs of nausea or dizziness. There’s absolutely no reason for him to start now.”

The other woman in, Belinda, sighed. “I’ll call in Croirac in the morning,” she said. “He needs to know that the shit in the water is making patients sick. _Don’t_ stop me, Christine. I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, but you’re not the same woman that hired me. You know better than I do that if they get addicted to it, it’ll be almost impossible weaning them off.”

With dawning horror, Steve understood exactly what they were talking about. They had drugs in the water the patients drank when taking their pills. Tony had unknowingly taken some part of the medication he’d been on, medication that was unstable without the rest.

Croirac would be called in the following morning. Steve looked at the clock. It was nine o’clock – dinner was at seven, and patients were all sent to bed at eight-thirty. Any staff not on night duty would be in their chambers in fifteen minutes, and the night staff were relatively small. They needed to do this tonight, because Tony would be under lock and key this time tomorrow, with whatever attendant he had in the morning ensuring he took his pills.

Steve stayed in the office another seven minutes, going through whatever documents were left lying open on the two desks in there. There was a trashy romance novel that he’d seen in the Mansion from time to time – he was pretty sure one of the Jess’ read them – titled _Burning Heat_ and featuring a woman clutching the pole separating her from the shiny torso of the male on the other side of the cover. A box of chocolates was placed right beside it; this room was one of the more personal ones that Steve had seen.

Palmer left, and Steve walked out with her. She met a man at the door, nodding to him as she passed.

“Christine,” he said. “All good?”

“Everything’s fine, Finn,” Palmer told him, pausing at the door. A brief flicker of annoyance passed over her features at having to converse. “One patient tonight. Bed eight.”

Finn nodded to her. “G’night, doc,” he called, sticking his head out of the room.

Palmer didn’t respond, already having walked away.

Steve went to Tony’s cubicle to wake him up. He needed Tony to be as alert as possible. Hopefully whatever they’d given him was already working to counteract the effects of the drugged water.

Tony was utterly still beneath the covers; it was how he slept nowadays, but it never failed to make Steve worry. His hair, having been cut recently just above his eyes, was shaggy and long at the back, fanning out over the pillow.

“Tony,” Steve said in a low voice. Hopefully Tony wouldn’t make too much of a noise when he woke. “Shellhead, wake up. C’mon, Avenger.” 

Tony’s eyes fluttered. His head turned to face Steve. Steve could see the exact process as his brain woke up; his eyes travelled around his surroundings, wariness building as he took in the darkness and Steve by his head.

He pushed himself up to a sitting position, and then squeezed his eyes shut and breathed deeply.

“We only have tonight,” Steve told him, wincing sympathetically. “The water they give patients to swallow their pills down with has medication in it, which is what’s affecting you. I heard them talking; they’re going to tell Croirac in the morning—”

“And after that, there’ll be no more sneaking out or skipping out on doses,” Tony finished quietly.

Steve nodded. He peeked out of the heavy curtains drawn Tony’s little cubicle. Tony waited until Steve gestured for him to get up. Instead of putting on the rubber-soled shoes, he padded out with just his socks.

There were no lights on throughout the hospital wing, with only what seemed like a lamp turned on inside the office. It made this easier for them. For Steve, the world was just as bright as it ever was during the day, just a different palette of colours. He wondered how Tony would react if he told him he could suddenly see matter. He’d develop that little furrow in his forehead, that was certain, the one that meant he was turning something over in his mind.

Steve poked his head out of the front door of the wing. The corridor was empty. He motioned to Tony to open the door and walk out. The two of them held their breaths as he cautiously turned the doorknob, every slight creak making Steve wince.

It was unlocked.

Tony opened the door as little as possible, tucking himself through the crack he’d created and closing it behind him. He was so thin now that he could probably fit through the slit between the closed doors, anyway.

Steve led him down the dark hallway. It was like a stakeout mission. His blood thrummed beneath his skin, heightening each of his senses until he was alert to the smallest changes in his environment. And Tony. His senses were attuned to Tony first and foremost, to anyone else walking these passageways that may stumble upon them. He stuck his head out before they made any turn, noting the hiding places in the form of side tables and vases.

Tony, to his credit and to Natasha’s, walked soundlessly. His breathing was level and calm, and his eyes tracked Steve as he followed him, trusting him fully.

“I’ve never seen anyone use these stairs, so I don’t know how loud this door will be,” Steve cautioned as they stood in front of the closest entrance to the basement. It really was too bad that the hospital wing had to be so far away from the rest of the rooms.

 _Here goes nothing_ , Tony signed to him.

He reached out and grabbed the handle, turning it slightly. It was locked. Tony didn’t dare let out the string of curses that Steve muttered under his breath, instead reaching into the pocket of his robe and pulling out a plastic knife.

Steve raised an eyebrow. “That’s way too thick.”

Tony glanced at him with that cocky, _you think you know better than me, Rogers?_ look that Steve hadn’t seen in much too long, and pushed it into the keyhole. Now that his hands weren’t around it, Steve realised that at some point, Tony had either broken or filed down the knife; it was about half the width it’d originally been.

He felt a smile grow on his face as Tony worked. He turned so his back was to the door and Tony, keeping watch. This hall was the most cramped one Steve had seen in the mansion thus far – hopefully that also meant that it was rarely patrolled in the night.

Steve was alerted to Tony picking the lock by a rush of cold air, the sound of a slight creak. He scanned the hall one last time, ears straining for any footsteps, before he walked through the door.

It was completely empty, as it’d been every time Steve had come down here. He gestured for Tony to follow him, not pausing as Tony closed the door behind them and padded down the stairs. Steve hadn’t noticed the cold down here, but Tony was actively shivering as he walked beside Steve, one hand still clutching the knife.

Steve knew the door the instant he saw it. Just as before, it gave off a reddish glow while the rest of the doors were a murky green. He relayed this information to Tony, who peered at the wooden door thoughtfully.

 _Do you suppose it means ‘evil, do not enter’?_ he asked with his hands, bending down in front of the lock.

Steve snorted. “With our luck, probably,” he said. “Hey, let me try something.”

Tony paused, looking at Steve as Steve concentrated hard on the utility belt around his waist. He remembered the feeling of the slim torch in his hand, that time he’d tried out shadow puppets with Peter and MJ.

This time Tony couldn’t keep in the surprised noise, immediately snapping his mouth shut as he stared at the torch now hanging off of Steve’s belt with wide eyes. _How long have you been able to do that?_ he signed furiously.

Steve took it off the belt, clicking it on. “I tried it that night I came in here.” He shone it into the keyhole. “Does this help?”

Tony was looking at it with a small frown. _The light comes and goes,_ he signed. _Like it’s not really part of this plane of existence, but it’s not_ not _part of it, either, if that makes sense._

Steve grimaced. “So like me,” he said. “Not really in either.”

Tony went back to fiddling with the lock. “All the, for lack of better phrase, _lore_ , on ghosts and incorporeal spirits that I’ve looked into over the years talks about emotions being linked to corporeality. But in your case, I honestly have no idea. You seem to be able to touch things at random. If I’d been paying attention from the start, maybe I could’ve picked out a logical pattern, but…” He shrugged.

“Sometimes it’s emotion-related,” Steve said thoughtfully. “But there have been too many instances where it wasn’t.”

Tony was nodding, even as he chewed on his lip in concentration. “I think there may be a link between how corporeal you are and the state of your…body,” he said. “Last I knew, it was in—in a casket.” He turned to face Steve. “I’m sorry I didn’t go to your funeral.”

Steve had no idea how to respond to that. “Well,” he said. “I’m not really dead, am I?”

“I didn’t know that at the time,” Tony said. “I did regret it, though. I—I can’t say I still do, because, as you said, you aren’t exactly dead. But I should’ve been there. Maybe there’s another universe where I fucked up and got you killed and then attended your funeral on top of it.”

Steve let out a breath, opening his mouth to say… _something_ – but at that moment the door opened with a soft _click_. Relief registered in him, that he hadn’t had to continue the conversation.

The room was, to Steve’s eyes, a sickening shade of crimson. It filled him with nausea to look at it – quite literally, judging by the jump in that little pull in his stomach that hadn’t gone away for some time now.

Tony closed the door behind them, something that made Steve’s pulse jump more than he wished to admit. It was the same size as the rooms beside it, but much, much fuller. There wasn’t a single speck of dust on anything. A massive pentagram was drawn on the wooden floor in the centre, thick white lines painted on. Candles were stood at each vertex; flame was all that was needed to get this going.

Tony let out a low whistle. “I gotta say,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting this.”

Steve snorted. “What, did you think I was getting evil vibes from bad medical practice?”

“Something like that,” Tony said absentmindedly, walking around the outskirts of the room to where the large cabinets stood. “They aren’t exactly doing magical shit on Peter, are they.”

“If he’s not here, then where is he?” Steve muttered. “This is everything on the building plans, and there are no entrances leading lower.”

“That you’ve found,” Tony said.

“What?”

“There are no entrances leading lower that you’ve found.” Tony glanced at Steve from across the room, eyes blue in the red glint. “We have all night. We’ll find him.”

Steve walked over to where Tony was rifling through files, pulling out papers whenever something caught his attention. “Anything?”

Tony shrugged. “Half this stuff isn’t even occult related. This whole row is just science journals, things that went out of practice decades ago. They must’ve moved them down here to make space upstairs.”

“If you open that door for me, I can go through those.” Steve nodded to a what seemed like a large wardrobe.

Tony did so with a grunt – evidently, it wasn’t as light as it looked. What appeared to be half a candle store was inside. Tony grabbed one and sniffed it, wrinkling his nose.

“What, not scented?” Steve teased lightly. He crouched down to peer at the lower shelves, shining his torch inside.

“Smells like dust bunnies,” Tony responded. “Anything down there?”

“Ornamental bowls and other ritual stuff,” Steve said with a sigh.

“Strange is going to have fun going through all this when we bring him in.”

They worked in silence for a little while, Tony still going through the documents as fast as he could while Steve examined the physical objects in the space. There were scratch marks on the floor again, identical in width and depth to the ones Steve had found before. He was getting a bad feeling about this, but that was nothing new.

“Steve,” Tony called, disgust in his voice. “Look at this.”

Steve walked over to find Tony standing in front of a freezer. Inside were jars upon jars of various types of blood and organs, some from animals but mostly from humans. Little freezer bags were at the bottom, containing herbs and spices.

There was even—

Tony gagged slightly. “Is that a—”

“Yup,” Steve said grimly. An entire frozen hand was right in the centre, reaching out towards whoever opened the doors. “The numbers… Tony, these were patients.”

“That’s foul,” Tony said. “How has no one noticed people going missing?”

“They must pick the ones that don’t have anyone visiting,” Steve said. “The other patients would believe anything they were told, and even if they didn’t, what’re they gonna do? Rebel? Tell their family? It’s a mental asylum. No one would believe them.”

“Then I guess it’s a good thing I got sent here,” Tony said, iron flashing in his eyes. He closed the door. “We still have half this room to get through.”

The two of them sped up, working at double the pace they were previously. A shiver ran down Steve’s spine every time he thought of the body parts in the freezer a few metres from him, the idea that any of them could’ve been Tony had Tony not been such a well-known public figure with a circle of people who genuinely cared about him.

“Tony,” he called. “I think I found something.”

Tony came over. “The moleskin?” he said even as he reached for it.

Steve peered over his shoulder. “I recognise that handwriting,” he said with a frown. “That doctor. Vandran.” 

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I spent half an hour snooping through his desk.” Steve’s frown deepened the more he read. “Soul trading?”

“It looks like he’s been bargaining with some lesser demon. Power and immortality, how original.”

Steve squinted at the name. “Carreau?” he said, taking a stab at the pronunciation.

“I’ve never heard that name,” Tony said, “but magic isn’t my forte.”

The writing was in a jagged black ink, sharp and thin. It was unlike anything Steve had ever seen. There were diagrams throughout the journal, drawings of things from pentagrams to sigils that were apparently meant to protect the summoner from possession. Steve glanced around at the room.

“I don’t think they’re visible to the naked eye,” Tony offered, having evidently had the same thought. “And there’s too much furniture in here to tell.”

“Shame,” Steve said, half joking. “A possession would solve a lot of problems.” _Reaffirm faith in humanity_.

There was a scratch at the door. Tony and Steve spun around in sync, Tony’s hand automatically having gone up in a typical Iron Man pose. 

“Put the book back,” Steve said. His heart was hammering into his ribcage, fear for Tony clawing at him.

Tony didn’t even pause to listen, shoving the book into the shelf and shoving the plastic knife deep into his robes. Steve thanked the stars that there was no dust lining the room – no one could easily track where they’d been and what they’d looked at.

And then the door flew open, and in walked two people in hospital smocks that Steve had never seen before. Tony’s eyes were shut and he slowly walked forward, as though in a daze. Steve realised with a jolt exactly what Tony meant to do.

“The fuck? Is that a patient?” the first man said. His head was bald, shaved recently, but he seemed to be middle aged.

“Doc’ll have our heads for this,” hissed the other. She was much smaller than the other man, but everything about her, from the hair in a tight bun atop her head to the vulture-like structure of her face, made her look to be the leader of the two. “Quick. He looks like he’s asleep. We just need to get him upstairs and he can wander the passages like a headcase.”

Steve stuck close to Tony. “A few steps forward. Just walk a few steps forward. The door’s wide open.”

The man came to stand behind Tony, a hand at his lower back. Steve’s hackles rose the instant his fingers began to slither lower, but he didn’t have a chance to do anything:

“ _What_ are you doing? You’ll wake him!” The woman shoved him away, placing herself beside Tony. “You keep watch.”

The bald man walked ahead of them, while the woman did everything in her power to make Tony walk faster.

“Lift your feet,” Steve said. “There’s a bit of a step.”

The lackeys left them at the top of the stairs, closing the door behind Tony with a muffled thud. Steve breathed a sigh of relief.

“We need to get to the hospital wing,” he said as Tony began jogging. “It’s later than I thought.” 

The first rays of light were beginning to shine through the cracks in the curtains. Steve hoped that they wouldn’t be checking up on Tony until a reasonable time. Steve ran ahead, telling Tony when to take which passage.

It wasn’t too long before Tony was panting, breath coming in hard and fast. He tried his best to keep quiet, but there was no hiding the heaving of his chest. He slowed to a fast walk.

“We’re almost there,” Steve tried to reassure. “You need to try—”

“Calming down?” Tony snorted breathily. “Don’t worry. I have more practise in looking okay than I probably should.”

Sneaking in was much more nerve-wracking than sneaking out, and Steve didn’t let out the breath he’d been holding in since Tony had been discovered until they were back in the cubicle, Tony tucked in under the covers. 

They’d gotten away scot free, by some mere toss of the coin.

But for whatever reason, the tugging in Steve’s stomach remained, increasing.

* * *

Tony was drunk off the high of getting away. He could barely hide his giddiness as he looked at Steve, adrenaline rushing to his head. It felt like everything was just as it’d always been, the two of them getting away from the latest villain.

But it wasn’t over yet. They needed to find Peter. And for them to do that, Tony needed to pretend to be sick for another day. He had no idea how he was going to avoid taking his pills again; after what Steve had told him of the conversation in the office the night before, they were bound to keep a much closer eye on him.

Tony slunk out of the hospital wing minutes before the bell for breakfast rang. It was frighteningly easy to leave someplace that was advertised to being monitored around the clock, but he would take every bit of luck he could get.

Tony had never gotten to the dining hall this early – perhaps it was the location of his room, but the nurses always got to him later than the majority of the patients. Hell, he usually slept through the breakfast bell, not minding the extra few minutes of ignorance and peace.

Mavis sat there in the centre, one of three people in the dining hall, a tray of food in front of her. Her eyes were vacant as she picked at her bowl of porridge. Tony scuffed his feet as he walked in, giving her a small wave when she looked up at the sound.

Steve was beside him as he picked out breakfast.

“I need to eat enough to get sick again,” Tony said under his breath.

Steve’s mouth turned downward, but he nodded. “Fruit on an empty stomach,” he said. “Grab a lot of oranges and apples. Grapes, too. No bananas. Get a glass of milk.”

Tony wrinkled his nose. “You’re good at this.”

Steve shrugged. “My mother was a nurse.”

Tony obliged, but grabbed some toast anyway – he needed something solid to throw up, too, not just bits of fruit and liquid. He sat down beside Mavis.

“You’re awfully early,” she commented. She didn’t turn to look at him, or even at her plate as she ate mechanically.

“I was in the hospital wing instead of my usual quarters,” Tony said, popping a few grapes in his mouth. His stomach, still sensitive from the previous day, gave a little lurch, but otherwise settled. Tony downed half the glass of milk.

Mavis hummed in response, but said nothing else. They sat there in relative silence as the rest of the tables slowly filled up. Tony kept an eye out for Wanda, wanting to get her alone to tell her about Peter, but she was absent.

He tried not to let it get to him. She had a session half the time in the morning; it didn’t mean that they’d gotten to Wanda already. A glance at Steve showed that he was also thinking of the same thing. 

“I’m taking a meditation session today,” Mavis said. “Join me?”

Tony hesitated. “I’m not really feeling it,” he said. It was true. What was also true was that there was a computer with his name on it in the common room. “Maybe tomorrow?”

Mavis inclined her head in acknowledgement. She wasn’t in a particularly chatty mood this morning, Tony noted.

Breakfast came and went, and no one appeared to give Tony his pills. He had no idea what was going on, but it made him uneasy. Steve stuck with him more than he had in a very long time, and Tony appreciated it, but Steve was making him antsy. 

“I’ll just be at the computer digging through trying to see if it has access to anything,” Tony told him. “You can go scout around or whatever—Steve, you _never_ fidget this bad. It’ll be fine, I promise.”

“You can’t promise that, Tony,” Steve said with a sigh. “That’s the whole issue.”

“We need to find Peter,” Tony said, ignoring him. “We need to find other places in this big ass mansion where he could be kept. He doesn’t have time. Our letter writing is too late for it to do any good. And face it, even if something did happen, you can’t do anything to stop it.” 

Steve left to scour the outskirts of the mansion while Tony fiddled with the computer. It felt a little like being his old self, to be the man behind the chair providing intel by doing what he did best.

It soon became clear that this computer was going to provide just as much intel as Tony had thought; that is, almost none. It didn’t have a network interface card installed, to begin with, meaning that it couldn’t access the local network or the internet. Had Tony not seen the staff here use the land-phone from time to time, he may have considered that there was no external communication being conducted.

With that in mind, Tony set to looking through the computer drives, Minesweeper running in the background. This was evidently almost the limit of what the computer could handle, judging by the loud rush of air it was releasing. Tony rubbed his hand on it apologetically. 

Drive C was where things got somewhat interesting. There were a series of emails that had been saved in a folder numbered by a series of seemingly random numbers, between the hospital and some third party organisation going by the name of _Hamilton Enclave Ltd_. Tony, with a cursory glance behind him, opened them up.

They all had about the same gist. They were order forms for bulk delivery of chemicals – it seemed that the hospital made most of their medication. There were probably laws against that, Tony thought distantly. Pepper would know. He missed Pepper.

“Mr Stark,” said a voice. Tony glanced up, hoping against hope that the person standing behind him didn’t read what was on the screen. Minesweeper took up half of it anyway. 

It was the same man as the night before, the one with the bald head. Tony hoped his face didn’t give away the fact that he recognised him. He wore a nametag now.

“Dwayne,” Tony read with a smirk. “How fitting.”

‘Dwayne’ looked at him impassively, something akin to pity in his eyes. “Your presence is required. The doctor asked me to retrieve you.” 

“Which doctor? Croirac?” Tony stood up, holding down the power button as he did so to hide his snooping. “Where are you taking me?”

“Follow me, please.”

Another person stepped up, but this time it was another large man with a similar build to Thor, or maybe Steve. He wore the nametag ‘Mark’, and crowded Tony from behind, walking much too imposingly close to Tony for comfort.

Tony swallowed. “Alrighty,” he said. He looked over to where the nurse in charge of the common room stood, bent over a patient, but she never looked up.

Any hope Tony had that Croirac was indeed the one who had called for him, that he was simply going in for another psych evaluation, or a talk about the lack of pills currently in his system, was completely destroyed as they led him downstairs.

The basement, which Tony had faced so fearlessly just mere hours ago, which he’d run through in socked feet and excitement coursing through his body, was now a tomb. He had no idea what awaited him at the end of this haunting passageway, but it wasn’t anything good.

It wasn’t a surprise to Tony when the door to the room he’d been in just last night was the one he was stopped in front of. Dwayne rapped his knuckles in a sharp melody that Tony instantly memorised, and the door swung open.

“Mavis?” Tony said. “What are you…”

Mavis was also held hostage here, his mind told him. Mavis had been taken during her meditation session, perhaps her surname began with a ‘W’ and Steve had merely read the note wrong, maybe she was also guilty of breaking the rules.

Mavis gave him a sickly sweet smile, walking back into the room. “Come in, Tony,” she said over her shoulder. “You’ve been naughty, haven’t you? You already know this room.”

“What’re you playing at, Mavis?” Tony had to try. At the very least, he wanted answers. “You can’t seriously be in league with the doctor.”

“I am in league with the good doctor. In fact, I do all the recruiting,” Mavis told him, just as Amaranth Vandran appeared from the recesses of the room. “You wouldn’t understand. Or maybe you would, but we’ll never know, now, will we?”

“Anthony,” Vandran greeted him. “I hope you know that I’m truly sorry it came to this. We didn’t intend for you to be part of our selected.” 

“I’m too high profile for that?” Tony said. “You are talking about the demon soul-trading, aren’t you?”

Vandran studied him with his cold eyes. “No, actually. Not yet. First, we must prepare your physical vessel.”

“Prepare my physical vessel?” Tony repeated.

“The room is prepared, doc,” Mark said.

“Good. Bring him.”

The two men grabbed Tony, each taking an arm and physically dragging him across the hallway. Inside this new room was a single operating table, complete with a tray of operating tools and devices beside it. Tony dug his feet in, but for what, he had no idea. There was no one here to save him, no way out of this. One way or another, he would end up on that table.

“Tony, you’re making this harder on yourself,” Mavis said. She had draped herself on Vandran’s arm.

Tony looked at her with disgust, realisation dawning upon him. _He has cold fingers_. “Are you fucking the doctor? That’s your big reason? You decided to work with actual demons for some—”

“I decided I liked how power felt,” Mavis cut in. “You wouldn’t know. You’ve never been without power, wealth, fame. The rest of us had to struggle to get to where we are, but you? Born with a silver spoon? What would you know of the battles the rest of us mere mortals face?”

“Don’t use that as an excuse,” Tony said. “Millions of people around the world face the same problems you do, but do you see any of them making deals with demons and carving up other human beings, stashing them in a fridge? You’re sick.”

“Well,” Mavis said. “We’re all a little sick here, aren’t we.”

Tony was lifted onto the table and strapped down, bands going across his shins and chest. His shirt was ripped into two. The band went directly over the arc reactor. He was surprised, really: normally, the reactor got the most attention. But apparently it was no match for demonic power.

“This is for your own good, Anthony,” Vandran told him. “You’ll see. It’ll make the end process much more painless.”

“Answer one question for me,” Tony said. “A last request, if you will.”

“You won’t _die_ ,” Mavis said. “That would ruin half the fun.”

“Where are you keeping Peter?”

“Peter?” Vandran frowned.

“Peter Maximoff.”

“Ah. The Maximoff boy.” Vandran rolled up his sleeves. “Not to worry. He’s safe.” Eyeing Tony, he added, “Not that it’s any of your concern, but there are other buildings outside of this mansion that I have reserved for experimentation. I _am_ one of the biggest contributors to this hospital’s funds.”

“And that makes them turn a blind eye to the nature of your experiments?” Tony squirmed as electric nodes were placed on his body. He shivered, goosebumps appearing all over his bare flesh. An IV line was injected into his veins.

At least the age of the lobotomy had passed.

“I’ve heard you have a brilliant mind, Anthony,” Vandran said. His voice was inexpressive, a blank slate of remote interest. “I’d hoped you’d come to understand what we’re doing here. It really is too bad. You would’ve made quite an asset.”

Tony, for the first time, felt a trill of fear run down his spine. His mind was all he had; without it, he was nobody. He had no idea what Vandran planned to do to him; he could handle anything that was physical. Just nothing that ruined his brain and left him breathing.

“This is for your own good,” Vandran told him right as he flipped a switch.

Tony didn’t feel anything at first. Perhaps they were only putting him to sleep, was his first thought.

Something cold trickled into his veins, permeating his bloodstream with a speed he hadn’t thought possible. It _burned_. There was fire beneath his skin, liquid flames that spread through his arm and covered every inch of his body. Someone was screaming, the sound shredding their vocal cords, but Tony couldn’t feel anything that wasn’t his body being incinerated from inside out.

He snapped his eyes open, struggling to hold the pain down with a clenched jaw. The world around him was fuzzy; Vandran was the only one in the room, and he stood beside Tony at one of the monitors, not even looking at him.

 _“Tony?”_ he heard from a distance. Steve’s face appeared right in front of his own. “Oh my God,” he murmured in horror.

 _Steve_ , Tony tried to say. He didn’t know if the word made it past his mouth. _Steve_.

Steve was a flurry of motion before him, and Tony’s eyes hurt to try and keep up. His hands grabbed for the wiring around Tony, but nothing happened. Again and again, Steve’s limbs moved to touch _something_ , but they flew through everything from the bench Tony lay upon to the chemicals pouring into his body.

And then Tony’s muscles began to spasm. The bonds holding him in place were the only thing that kept him from arching on the operating table, convulsing. He didn’t know how long it went for, or whether he was conscious for all of it.

In the background, voices could be heard.

_He isn’t supposed to be seizing._

_I_ know _that!_

_Fix this! We need his body to be sound of mind, not brain-dead._

The next thing he knew was Steve’s face beside his, hands hovering by Tony’s cheeks. “Tony?” he said. “You with me, Shellhead?” His eyes were panicked, fear clouding them. “It’s going to be okay, alright? Just hang in there. I’m going to go get—” 

_Stay_. He didn’t know if he said it aloud, but Steve’s face crumpled slightly. 

“I’m here,” he promised.

Tony’s breath came in short huffs as pain wracked his body. He didn’t know what they’d injected into him, but it was on par with every other form of pain he had ever gone through. This was akin to having a surgeon dig through his ribcage without anaesthesia. This was on the same level as having shrapnel eating into his flesh.

There were two Steves now, one standing in the corner of the room. As Tony watched, he staggered forward out of the shadows. Something in the drugs must have wasted away at his inhibitions, because the second Tony saw the bloody, gaping hole in the centre of this Steve’s body, he began to scream.

“Hey, hey, hey. I’m here. Tony, look at me. Stay with me. Focus on me.”

Tony couldn’t take his eyes off the other Steve – or maybe _this_ was the other Steve. There was no denying which one was more real, which one had more basis in reality.

The bloody Steve stepped up to the bench, until he was leaning over the Tony. There were maggots writhing about in the rotting flesh of his chest.

“You failed me,” Steve rasped. “Why did you fail me?”

Tony was frozen looking at him. Artificial terror pumped into his system, his muscles stiffening with the force of holding himself still, making himself into a smaller target. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Tony? What did you say?” 

The burning beneath his flesh was second only to the horror before him, the fact that Steve had finally come for him. Tony realised only now that he’d been holding his breath, this last day, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It had finally dropped.

“You’re worthless. You don’t belong in this world, _alive_ ,” Steve hissed, looming over him. He leaned right into Tony’s face, one hand going over where the arc reactor was positioned. “Look what you did with your life. What was the point of me being your sacrificial lamb if you couldn’t even control yourself?” 

_I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry_.

“You’re _sorry?”_ Steve pressed down, and Tony stopped breathing at the pressure on his chest. The arc reactor, already pressing down into his lungs by weight of gravity, was now a fearsome beast pushing down onto him, eating away at the little handle he had over himself. “Do you think that means _anything,_ now? You’re an addict, you’re never really sorry.”

He screamed again at the intense heat that grew the more Steve leaned his supersoldier weight down, but this time it was a hoarse sound, almost silent – there wasn’t enough air in his lungs. Steve watched him impassively, eyes empty as they’d never been in life. And the worst of it was, despite everything, despite how warped and twisted this version of his friend was, Tony would rather die looking Steve Rogers in the eye.

And then suddenly the pressure was gone, but Steve’s hands moved behind him to grab the shield strapped to his back. In one smooth movement, he brought it down over Tony’s neck, and everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Tony is tortured with some sort of drug that causes intense pain and hallucinations. He sees Steve, with the hole through his chest, blaming him for his death. There's some disturbing imagery there as well.
> 
> Thanks for reading!! Hmu on [tumblr](http://fanfictiongreenirises.tumblr.com)


	8. VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony finally runs away from the asylum and Steve is... elsewhere.

They took Tony to his room, not the hospital wing. Steve didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t leave Tony, but there was nothing he could do for Tony here. He paced the length of Tony’s quarters like a caged tiger, nerves frayed with the events of the day.

Steve had found Peter. He’d found him in a seemingly abandoned barn behind the stables. Made up of decaying wood and cobwebs, it’d practically screamed at Steve to stay away – possibly with something magical, even. So Steve had persisted through the nausea building in his stomach and walked through the doors, and the very instant he did so, the sick feeling of wanting to leave had disappeared. 

What had once been stalls were now fitted with bars and locks. They lined the sides; there had to be at least eight of them. At the very back, Steve could make out a sort of office containing computers. But that wasn’t his biggest concern. 

One of those cages had contained Peter.

Steve had rushed over, moving through the cage without a second thought. The boy – for the body there didn’t look like it was any older than twenty – lay curled up on a corner. His skin, already white, was pale to the point of almost translucency. He was clothed in the hospital garb; Steve had no idea how he’d survived the nights here without freezing to death. 

“Peter?” he said. “Peter Maximoff?”

Peter stirred. “F’ck off,” he slurred, barely even moving.

“You can hear me?” Steve had been surprised – it’d been second nature to call his name, but he hadn’t expected a response to it. Peter must be closer to death than he looked. 

“’Course I c’n hear ya. C’n’t y’ l’mme get s’me sleep?”

“I’m Captain America,” Steve said. “I’m here to help you.”

At that Peter opened his eyes. “Who th’ hell’s Capt’n ‘merica?”

Steve opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it. _Who the hell_ didn’t _know Captain America?_ “That’s not important right now,” he said. “We need to get you out of here.”

“C’n’t.” Peter’s eyes were closed once again.

“Why not?” Steve frowned. “I have someone on the inside—”

Peter snorted, and immediately flinched, face momentarily screwing up in pain. “No ‘ne ge’s outta h’re, _Capt’n_. Not ‘nless ‘s in a bodybag.”

“Can you tell me what they’re doing to you, then? When they come?” 

From the slurred words of Peter Maximoff, Steve had been able to gather a few points. Peter had been selected after a doctor had noticed that the medication doses he’d been kept on didn’t affect him as long as they should – in fact, the effects stopped almost an hour after they’d been administered. Blood tests and the like had been conducted, and from then it was a generic mutant horror story.

He’d been used to test various experiments, half the staff using Peter as their personal guinea pig, because what better subject than one with regenerative ability? Vandran had taken a particular liking to him, testing out the limits of his abilities. They moved him between a room in the basement and the barn, Peter explained haltingly.

Peter was also fitted with a tracker that would paralyse him with an electric pulse to the brain the second he set foot outside the estate. Digging the implant would also result in an electric pulse.

Steve had listened, sick to the stomach. And then he’d promised Peter that he was bringing help (to which Peter had laughed) before bolting out of the stall turned cage. A plan was already forming in his mind, one that relied on Tony throwing up the contents of his stomach and getting sent to the medical wing once again.

But he’d barely walked through the doors of the mansion when he’d seen figures emerging out of the basement, something that, in all the time Steve had spent exploring the hospital, had never occurred in the day. Steve had walked downstairs immediately, to the sight of Tony strapped to an operating table, seizing.

Thinking back to it now, Steve had no idea what had run through his head at that moment. Instincts had taken over; his fist had swung at the person closest to him, going through their flesh and leaving him off balance. That hadn’t stopped Steve from trying, though. He’d gone to Tony next, doing his best to rip off all the medical equipment attached to him, shouting to try and get his attention.

If he couldn’t get Tony out of there, the next best thing he could do was keep his mind off it.

Steve would never forget the look on Tony’s face when he saw Steve. The stark relief had been plain, as though the mere sight of Steve was enough to reassure him that everything was going to be okay. Steve swallowed down a wave of nausea at the thought; he _hadn’t_ been able to fix it.

_Steve_ , Tony’s lips had said. There had been blood on his lips, as though he'd bitten them. His fingers had gone out in Steve’s direction. “I’m here,” Steve had told him, and he’d done his best to grab onto Tony’s fingers. “I’m here, Tony. Focus on me, okay?” He didn’t know how much of it Tony had registered in his delirium.

But by far the worst had been after the hoarse screams and pleas had begun. If Steve never heard Tony apologise endlessly like that again, it would be much too soon. His broken whispers had been identical to the way he would react to Steve before he’d known Steve was real, the way his eyes would well up with tears, terrified but resigned to whatever punishment he thought Steve would dole out.

He hadn’t looked at Steve, though. He’d looked past him, eyes fixated on a point in the empty space. He’d been hallucinating, clearly, but that didn’t make it any less real. And for some reason, absolutely nothing that had Steve done shifted Tony’s attention away. He’d been trapped in the nightmare, right up to the point he’d stopped breathing.

There’d been a wild beeping of one of the monitors, and several nurses had rushed forward.

“That was faster than I had anticipated,” Vandran had said, stroking his beard. He was the villain in such a cliché way that it almost made the situation amusing. The situation was not amusing. “Prepare the defibrillators.”

“He’s weak,” that girl Tony had made friends with – Mavis – had commented, impassively watching the events proceed. Steve had to hand it to him: Tony really had a way of attracting people who were bad news. At least in this case, he hadn’t actually hooked up with Mavis.

A team dressed in white lab-coats and wearing surgical masks had essentially resuscitated Tony, and Steve had gathered that the drug (the ‘red death’, they were calling it) was made to induce hallucinations of the subject’s worst nightmares and fears. Their nerves were overloaded with sensations, gateways kept wide open artificially so the pain didn’t numb. The patient’s heart would eventually give out from the sheer terror.

Whatever Tony had hallucinated, it’d told his body that he was dead, that he had died. Steve had a sick feeling he knew what it’d been. Tony’s lips had formed his name.

Which was why he was currently pacing the room. It’d only been minutes since they’d brought Tony here, but he couldn’t keep still, sitting in the chair or by Tony’s head, because he didn’t know if his face should be the first thing Tony saw. He didn’t know how Tony would react to seeing him.

Steve would wait another five minutes, but if Tony hadn’t stirred in that time – and it was incredibly unlikely he would – then he would leave to make the trek all the way back to the Mansion.

Right now, he needed to tell Tony about Peter. He needed Tony to wake up so they could rescue Peter and finally get the hell out of this place. Steve needed Tony to be an Avenger first, and Tony Stark second, and it was a big request, he knew, and an unhealthy one at that, but they would deal with all of this when they had the time. When they were finally safe in the Mansion.

But chances were that Tony couldn’t do that. Steve needed to leave, to get help as fast as possible. Selfishly, he was taking five minutes.

Steve gagged. The tugging sensation that had been in the pit of his stomach for the last day or so suddenly spiked, causing him to double over, gasping slightly. He pawed at his midriff, searching for any wound or physical sign, but there was nothing.

He was too dizzy to stand. Steve went down to both knees, breath coming shallow as he did his best to control the waves of nausea coming up at him. This wasn't right. There was definitely something wrong with him. 

The world around him did nothing to help. What had been a captivating array of colours for the past few months was now a flurry of shades whizzing past his eyes. Steve wanted to hurl. He pressed his hand into his stomach, above his belly. It was the same spot he'd been hit by the magician when he'd “died”. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was his final death, and these last months had been some side effect of the serum—

The world went white and Steve could no longer feel a thing. In some far-off vestige of his mind, his only thought was of Tony, who lay unconscious in the bed, who had asked him to stay, who would wake up without Steve there next to him.

Who didn't know about Peter.

Steve squeezed his eyes shut, unable to handle the intense light piercing his vision. His skin was burning, like it was being boiled from the inside, blood bubbling inside his veins. It was nothing like being frozen alive, where, after the pain, there had just been numbness.

Here, the pain ratcheted higher and higher, and at each step Steve thought, _this is it_ , and each time he was dragged through it like nails through his flesh onto a whole new degree of torture. He didn't know how much time had passed before he saw something. 

“Strange?”

Stephen Strange smiled down at him. “It's good to see you, Captain.”

* * *

Tony had to drag up the energy to gain consciousness. His eyes felt glued shut, mouth packed with sawdust. _Breathing_ was hard. It was as though an entire punching bag was resting on his chest. Tony would’ve panicked had he not had extensive experience with waking up to pain.

Tony dragged in a breath, slow and steady, as much as would fit into his already incapacitated lungs. He held it in, then let it out, willing himself to not panic. Gradually, his mouth felt less like an ashtray, and his—

Well, his eyes still wouldn’t open. Tony brought a hand up to his face to rub at his eyes. It took him a couple of goes for his hand to actually make it accurately to his face. Whatever new medication they had him on, it must have fucked with his blood circulation, because he could barely feel through his fingertips. The arc reactor kept his heart functioning moderately well, but it didn’t change the fact that he was perpetually freezing to the touch. Adding this atop that meant trouble.

There was something niggling Tony at the back of his head, something that he expected to happen. Something that was _missing_ , but no matter how hard Tony poked at his brain, it delivered nothing.

Tony opened his eyes, doing his best to his hand to shade them from the onslaught of light that pierced his vision and caused an instant stabbing pain at the forefront of his skull. He was somewhat relieved that he could still feel pain, despite the inconvenience of it; pain was the anchor that kept him grounded.

_Steve_. 

Where was Steve?

Tony blinked frantically, trying to work up the ability to sit up. He needed to see if Steve was still there. There wasn’t enough saliva in his mouth for him to call out Steve’s name, for him to see if Steve responded to him like he’d done for as long as he’d been Tony’s ghost.

He turned his body, grunting with the effort. His chest ached something fierce, a familiar sort of pain that came from CPR. What, exactly, had happened the previous day?

Tony opened his mouth, intending to call out to Steve, but the second his vocal cords tried to make a sound, a coughing fit overtook him. It forced him into sitting up, the force of the hacking wheezes momentarily making him forget the pain in the rest of his body. His throat seized up as he fought to get a single ounce of oxygen into his lungs.

Tony’s door flew open and suddenly there were hands pushing his body back. He fought against them, arms moving feebly against the attackers, before something was injected into the side of his neck.

Tony floated.

* * *

“I—what happened?” Steve said. “What did you do to me?” He sat up, being surprised when there was no head rush at the movement.

And then there was attack from all sides as Steve was practically jumped upon by various costumed figures. Jan’s arms were around his neck, practically squeezing his throat shut. Hank and Clint’s hands came to clap down on his shoulder from behind somewhere. Carol’s hug lifted him and Jan up into the air for a moment before they settled, before Thor came from wherever he’d been standing and embraced Steve with his massive muscled arms. Natasha had been standing back with a soft smile on her face, but when Jan tugged her by the hand, she was pulled into the fray. 

Steve let out a watery laugh. After being deprived of human contact for so long, the feeling of so many arms around him – of his _family_ around him – was surreal. It was the exact opposite of what it’d felt like being rescued from the ice. Only—

“Tony,” he said.

Carol looked to Jan. “Steve,” she began in a hesitant voice. “I think you should sit down for this, maybe—” 

“No, I’ve been with him this whole time,” Steve interrupted. “The asylum he’s in is the real issue – they tortured him. Last night. Or, whatever was last night for me. What’s the date?”

How long had he been floating in that weird, coloured realm, separate from reality and from Tony? He didn’t even know if Tony had woken up yet.

“The procedure to get you back took twenty-four hours,” Natasha said.

Dread flooded Steve’s veins. Tony would have woken up, if he was okay. If they hadn’t kept him heavily sedated. “We need to get there. _Now_.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Hank said. “Steve, I’m all up for rescuing Tony – god knows I’m up for rescuing him from that place – but we can’t go in there without all the facts. Another few hours won’t—”

“You don’t understand! We—he found something. That’s why they tortured him – they said it’d make him forget. They gave him this—this _drug_ , and it caused seizures and his _heart_ stopped and—and it’s not just Tony!” Little by little, with the Avengers standing around him, Steve proceeded to tell them a summarised version of the events of the past few months.

By the time Steve had finished his tale, the remaining Avengers were no longer smiling. Jan sat on the couch, brows furrowed as she considered what to do. Steve had no idea how leadership was going to work now – before, it’d been him and Tony leading the group, but after he’d…become a ghost, and Tony had begun drinking again, Jan had taken over. 

“Okay,” she said, straightening. “Where’s Strange?”

* * *

Tony sat in the dining hall, staring down at the bowl of what was essentially sludge before him. He hadn’t picked it out – he’d come here and got into a seat and then a nurse, who had brought him his pills (another strange phenomena) had served it herself and given it to him. 

Tony had no idea why. There was a hole in his memory in the form of the previous day, and the only explanation he had for it was some sort of procedure that had gone wrong. Despite the fact that he had no recollection of what procedure it may have been.

And then there was the matter of Steve. Where was Steve? He’d seemed so happy when Tony had finally acknowledged his existence, and for him to disappear now…

Tony refused to fall back into thinking that Steve wasn’t real. His heart rate picked up at the mere thought of it. Nothing good came from that train of thought.

A figure sat down beside him. “Good morning, Tony,” Wanda said warmly, albeit a little distant. “Are you feeling better today?”

Tony opened his mouth to respond, and closed it again when her words fully registered in his mind. _Are you feeling better today?_ Today – he hadn’t disappeared long enough for anyone to comment on it. “Yeah,” he said. “Hey, Wanda, come out to the gardens with me after breakfast?”

“Of course,” she said, biting down into a piece of toast.

Tony stared down at the bland white substance sitting before him. Seeing him looking at it, Wanda pushed a plate of biscuits towards him. 

“Here,” she said. “I got enough for us to share.”

Waiting for breakfast to end would’ve already been a maddening process, had there not been the twinges of pain all around Tony’s body. For some reason, every time he spoke some part of him expected his throat to be hoarse, and time and time again his hand moved without his direction to his neck as though it was sore. It wasn’t.

Tony wished Steve were here.

He wasted no time after the bells rang to be cautious and hide his intentions. Tony beelined for the doors leading to the gardens outside, glancing back only once to see whether Wanda was following.

Wanda had with her a light shawl draped over her arm. Tony wondered, not for the first time and probably not the last, how in the hell she fit into this mess of a puzzle. He slowed down as he nearest the stairs leading down from the balcony, waiting for her to fall into step with him. 

“Lovely day,” Wanda commented, weaving her arm into his. For a moment, it was as though they were any other couple, here on a romantic getaway, with no mental illnesses or ghost family to speak of. Some part of Tony – the part that was sick and tired of losing friends, the part that would probably never recover from seeing Steve’s still, broken body in the morgue – wished he could live in that moment. “The boys are having a blast.”

The spell broke with her words and Tony cursed himself for even humouring the daydream. “Wanda, I haven’t been entirely honest with you,” he began. “To be fair, though, I only came by this information recently.”

Wanda watched his face as he recounted the events started from that memorable night on that balcony with her, falling to his with the revelation that Steve was, in fact, real. He told her of Peter, how Steve had found the files, how they had planned to sneak down into the basement to search the room that kept Steve out.

How Tony couldn’t remember any of the events from that moment to this morning.

Wanda’s face grew pale as she listened to Tony. “I should’ve known!” she murmured, turning away from him to face the greenery. “He’s never absent for this long! I just thought…” Wanda shook her head, rubbing her eyes with a thumb and forefinger.

Tony tentatively laid a hand on her shoulder, squeezing comfortingly. “You didn’t expect to come here and stumble into whatever the fuck is going on,” he told her. “But listen, we need to get out of here.”

Wanda nodded slowly. “I agree,” she said. “We must rescue Peter and find help.”

Tony was relieved she was so quick to come around, that she’d believed him. “We’ll break out tonight and find him, no matter how long it takes.” 

That, it seemed, was where Wanda’s optimistic agreeability ended. “We have nothing,” she said. “You didn’t bring your armour. And…” she hesitated, before continuing, “my mutant powers are mostly inhibited by the sedatives they lace my food with.”

Tony, despite being paranoid about that exact thing, was surprised. “They drug your food?” he said in indignation. “This institution is meant to be legitimate—”

Wanda was shaking her head as he spoke. “It’s to suppress my mutant abilities,” she explained. “I signed a form giving them permission to do so. They were very reluctant at first, in fact.”

Tony remembered putting constraints on his armours to not allow access when his BAC was above a certain level, and found that he understood Wanda a lot more than he had a moment ago. She was another like him, tying her demons down as tightly as possible. Only in Wanda’s case, her demons weren’t actual demons. “Will the sedatives affect me?”

Wanda looked at him thoughtfully. “It’s designed by Hank McCoy to specifically target the X-Gene – _my_ X-Gene, in fact. So no, you shouldn’t be harmed. There’s no drowsiness. It’s just an itch beneath my skin. I don’t think I’d feel even that, if we were anywhere else.” 

Tony frowned. “What do you mean?”

“The ley lines,” Wanda explained. “This hospital is built on a convergence. Directly over it, in fact – one of the original founders must’ve been involved in the mystical arts. There’s no other way that they wouldn’t be repelled by it – unnatural things are, you know. My boys don’t come into the house unless they absolutely have to. They prefer playing outside, hiding in the barn. They’ll tell me stories about it.”

The ley lines probably went a long way to explain Steve’s presence here, how different it was to the level of interaction he’d been able to have when they were still in New York. As far as Tony knew, there were no ley lines under Avengers Mansion.

Tony said nothing, unsure of how to respond to that. There was silence as the two of them looked out into the perfect fields surrounding the mansion, each lost in their own thoughts. Wanda shook herself, jerking slightly beside Tony.

“Get the same lunch as me,” she said. “I’ll be having the chicken soup with exactly three slices of bread. No salt.”

Tony nodded.

The next few hours were a test of both patience and levelheadedness as Tony and Wanda waited for bedtime.

The first thing that made Tony’s heart pound harder than it had in a very long time occurred during lunch. Wanda walked over to the counter – apparently she’d been getting her meals readymade from the kitchen this whole time. Tony followed close on her heels. She stared at the walls in that Luna Lovegood fashion once again, that clarity in her eyes that’d been there during their entire conversation in the gardens vanishing behind a smoke screen.

Then Wanda tripped on something, sending the whole tray of cutlery hurtling to the marble floor.

Tony was beside her in an instant, blocking her from the nurse’s line of vision as he helped her gather the utensils. He slipped a fork and a knife into his sleeve unnoticed just before the lady in charge of the kitchen – Betty – came up to them, skirts aflutter in the most cliché manner.

“Leave it, dears,” she said in a voice that brook no argument. “We have people for that.”

She nodded, and within seconds, two people appeared. One ushered Tony and Wanda away, and the other bent down to clean up.

Tony walked back to the buffet table, serving himself soup and bread without a glance towards Wanda’s plate. After a moment’s thought, he grabbed a couple of fried chicken wings. His stomach roiled at the scent of deep-fried food, but he walked over to Wanda anyway, the plate with the chicken in hand.

Sitting down was a challenge, and an intentional one at that. Wanda was much more alert than Tony had given her credit for. The struggle to sit in the tight corner by the wall meant that swapping plates was much less noticeable.

“Are you sure you don’t want one?” Tony asked, indicating the fries. “I got one for you.”

Wanda smiled at him. “I can barely stomach all this,” she said. “I don’t think it would sit well.”

Tony shrugged, as if to say, _fair enough_ , before sipping a spoonful of her soup. Whatever was in it, it wasn’t noticeable. The soup was rather good, though, and the lack of sustenance in his body made him wolf down everything on his tray. 

“Wanda, pass me the pepper, would you?” he said, nodding to the centre of the table. They had the salt and pepper in small packets (something he would very much be complaining about after this whole thing – he was _not_ paying for packeted seasoning) while the sugar was served only when there was tea.

“Of course.” She handed him eight packets.

Tony fought the urge to laugh. Instead, he began meticulously ripping up the used packets into tiny pieces, covering for the fact that there were only two that were used.

The second time was a random physical check-up where they took everyone, even Wanda, who’d had hers just two days ago. Tony counted the number of people standing in line outside the doctor’s chamber, wondering if there were other people who’d gone missing in the time he’d been here.

But no, surely Steve would’ve noticed.

Mavis stood at the back, too many people between her and Tony for them to strike up a conversation. She saw him looking and lifted a hand, wiggling her fingers at him. Tony smiled back at her, but it was strained. There was something about Mavis now that his body seemed to be revolting against – his gut instinct was to leave. Tony had learnt to trust his gut when it came to memory loss.

“Mr Stark, please come in,” a nurse said, opening the door. Jim, the guy who’d potentially murdered his wife, walked out. He thumped Tony on the shoulder as he did so, making Tony wince. He kept forgetting how sore he was all over.

But there was nothing strange about the check-up at all. In fact, it was much more routine than it’d been the first time. Dr Monver barely made eye contact with him, mumbling under his breath as he checked Tony’s heart rate, blood pressure, respiratory rate, examining his sensory organs as well. He avoided Tony’s arc reactor, only giving it a lingering glance before Tony said, “it’s doing fine, doc. Trust me, I’d know.” 

“Your heart is beating rather fast,” Monver commented.

Tony’s heart was pounding in his chest because he had silverware hidden up his sleeves in the robes he’d just taken off, but he wasn’t going to be telling Monver that.

But Monver continued: “It’s almost as though it’s recovering from an abnormal surge of adrenaline. You’ll need to come in for another check-up tomorrow, Mr Stark.”

“There are also the typical abnormalities with your lungs and chest, which appear to be worse than your last check-up, but at the stage, it could be a common cold, for all we know. Your paperwork ensured that no one would go near,” he nodded to Tony’s chest, “but if we believe it’s potentially harming you or is involved in a serious medical problem, we _will_ examine it.”

Tony didn’t know that had been included in the forms. _Bless Pepper_. What would he do without her? 

“I doubt it’ll come to that,” Tony said stiffly, putting his shirt back on. “Am I done, doctor?”

Monver nodded, and the nurse opened the door to let in the next patient. Apparently they were on some sort of schedule, what with the speed the doctor was looking at them with.

* * *

Night time came both too quickly and not soon enough. Tony lay awake in bed, counting down the minutes with songs. There was an antique clock in the hallway, right near his door, whose ticking could be heard if one held their breath.

Fifteen more ticks, and Tony got up. He didn’t bother fixing up the sheets or anything – if all went to plan, he’d never see this room again. Tony put on his robes and stuffed his shoes into his pocket. Then, walking to the door, he got out a plastic knife he’d found buried deep inside the clothing.

Picking the lock took less time than he thought it would, but he should’ve expected it – the locks hadn’t been updated since the mansion had been built, it seemed. Instead, the place had been kept in top condition. Tony wasn’t complaining; despite the strange smell all around, it made it much easier to escape.

Or so he hoped.

Wanda had given him specific instructions as to where her room was, and Tony had gone over it meticulously with her until it was seared into his brain. He took note of where he was in relation to the dining hall, and then stepped out of the shadow of his doorway without a backward glance.

A left down a hall with a vase engraved with gold flowers, following it down past the portrait of an formidable lady, hair in a tight bun, with a cat on her lap. Then a quick dodge to the side as Tony heard a creak, waiting a few beats as he strained his ears for the slightest of sounds before moving on.

The darkness of the mansion made his other senses work on overdrive as he crept along, ready to dart into the shadows at the slightest of sounds. Another left led him into what Wanda said would be a much warmer hallway. Tony barely felt the temperature shift, but recognised the long side table that she had spent so long describing. It, like the rest of the furniture in the institution, was spotless, not a single speck of dust marring its surface. There was a miniature version on it of the grandfather clock in the common room. 

Tony walked to the door directly to the right of it. He bent down and scratched his nail on the bottom of the door once, for barely a moment. A responding scratch answered him, and with a relieved smile, Tony began working on unlocking the door.

Wanda’s reaction to freedom was much more pronounced than Tony would have thought, but she _had_ been here for far longer than he had. She swept him up in a hug, almost as though she hadn’t expected him to come for her. Tony felt it too, the giddiness of finally doing something that wasn’t mere existence, moving from one state of consciousness to another.

But this was the easy part. Now came actually leaving the mansion, and then the estate grounds.

Walking out of the main door would be foolish, but that was just what they were going to do. Or rather, they were going to sneak out of one of the windows beside the door. There would no doubt be countless locks on the door, maybe even an alarm system.

Tony, to be frank, was surprised their plan had held this long. He examined the window beside the door. It didn’t open at all. 

“Tony,” Wanda breathed shakily, “I think…”

As Tony turned to face her, he saw something red and wispy out of the corner of his eye. It was eerily familiar in a way; where had he seen Wanda’s magic before? It didn’t make any sense, but then again, _nothing_ about Wanda made sense.

“You were off the suppressants for barely a day,” he said incredulously.

Wanda gave him a tight smile. “Like I said, ley lines. Doing magic here isn’t like anywhere else.”

“Is it safe?”

Wanda shrugged. “I don’t know. But is it any safer to stay?”

Tony couldn’t argue with that.

The locks on the door opened with a soft click, and a gust of cold air swept into the hall. Tony shivered as it hit, filling his body with ice.

“Come on,” he said to Wanda, who stood there. “We need to be quick.”

She closed the door behind them as they jogged down the gravel road. Tony breathed a sigh of relief when they hit the grass – their footsteps were far too loud, and it was a miracle they’d made it this far.

Adrenaline was hitting him hard, opening up senses that had lay dormant for so long. “You’ve been to this barn before?” Wanda nodded. “Lead the way.”

It was a shorter distance to the barn than Tony had thought it’d be. The sky was overcast, hiding most of the moon. They didn’t dare use any sort of light – it would practically be a beacon guiding everyone from the mansion directly to them. Their pace was as fast as they could go, and Tony couldn’t help but be grateful to the gardeners for making sure that the lawn was as smooth as humanly possible.

This was in a different direction to the one they usually went when they were out on strolls or tried out gardening. In fact, Tony doubted he’d ever even noticed this side of the estate before. It was large and mostly flat, with plenty of grazing space. The grass was soft beneath his feet – they probably allowed patients to ride as well.

“There,” Wanda panted. “That’s it.”

The barn was probably welcoming during the day. It was probably fancy in that old, antique sense that all rich buildings were, even the ones for animals. But now, under the cover of night with their only visibility being barely half a moon, it was something out of a horror novel.

“It’s the only building we have left to search?” If they didn’t find Peter in there, then the two of them would make a run for it on horseback and ride until they found a phone. Or got to the Avengers. Whichever came first.

Wanda nodded. “The stables are beside it, but that wouldn’t have any patients. It houses all the therapy animals.” 

“Therapy animals?” Tony lifted himself over the paddock fence as Wanda floated above it and landed softly on the other side. She seemed to be revelling in having her powers back. “We have therapy animals?”

“Yes.” Wanda looked at him. “They’re part of the optional sessions. You must’ve been too out of it to read it properly.”

“Damn,” Tony said. “Are you telling me I could’ve been out here with horses and cats and llamas and all that? Drugged up me is an idiot.” He was sure that Steve, at some point, had mentioned something about stables, because he wasn’t as surprised at this information as he would’ve been if it were truly new knowledge. He was missing a day, but it wasn’t a perfect wipe – implicit memory remained somewhat, apparently. 

Wanda gave him an amused look and didn’t argue.

There were no animals outside tonight – it was far too cold for that. It was a shame, really, Tony thought. Had the night been warmer, there might’ve been horses. It would’ve made their escape all the more easy if they didn’t have to break into the stables as well. 

They reached the door of the barn. Tony leaned in close to the wall and peered in through the cracks. All he could see were walls separating stalls, and then what appeared to be an office at the very back. Tony moved his eye away, blinking rapidly. He wished he’d thought to bring his glasses.

“Tony,” Wanda said from beside him. She’d gotten the door open at some point, and was gesturing to him to come.

“Wait,” Tony said. He ran his eyes along the edges of the doorway, around the ceiling directly inside the barn. As far as he could tell, there was no security system in place here, either. Breathing a sigh of relief, he stepped over the entrance, indicating to Wanda to enter with a jerk of his head.

They closed the door behind them as softly as they could. Tony could already feel sensation returning to his fingers from being out of the biting wind outside. The lighting inside the barn was dim; there was only one lamp turned on, and it hung from the wall beside the door to the office.

Tony indicated to Wanda to check the left side, and he took the right. Tony crept along, walking the way Natasha had taught him. The secret to tiptoeing wasn’t, in fact, to tiptoe: rather, one needed to step with the whole of their foot, placing their heel and then working their way to their toes in a balanced manner to distribute their weight evenly. It was far quieter than stepping with just the balls of one’s feet; Natasha had gotten Tony to try to prove her point.

All the stalls on Tony’s side were empty. Just as he was about to turn to Wanda and see if she’d had more fruitful results, he heard a gasp. Spinning around, Tony saw her dart into a stall. 

He rushed across the aisle to her side. When he reached the stall, he froze. A limp, faded body lay there, hooked up to an IV line. There was straw covering the floor of the stall, as one would put in for an animal, with three hay bales stacked on one side. The body was covered with a light blanket, appearing as though it’d just been thrown onto it from the doorway. Anger rushed through him; there was no way this establishment was going to stay in business. Tony would make sure of it.

“Is he…” Tony didn’t want to say it.

“He’s alive,” Wanda said. “Help me get him up. I don’t think he’s going to be waking any time soon.” 

Tony crouched beside Wanda, placing a hand under Peter’s shoulder blades and lifting him up into a sitting position. Peter didn’t stir. Tony checked his pulse – weak but still there. He would hopefully be fine until they had enough distance between them and the hospital to call for help.

Something behind Peter’s ear caught Tony’s eye. Frowning, he brushed back the shaggy hair to inspect it closer.

“What?” Wanda asked. She was wrapping him up in the blanket, trying to get warmth into his body.

Tony cursed. “I think it’s a tracking device, but god knows what else it’s designed to do to him. I don’t think we can take him without disarming it, but the longer we’re here…” He looked around. “Wanda, pry that nail out of the board and pass it to me.”

Wanda did so, with both her own strength and that of her magic to remove it from the plank soundlessly. Tony barely glanced at her as she handed it to him, eyes focused on the tiny node sticking out of Peter’s flesh.

If this were his lab, they would’ve had it out within seconds. But here, with practically nothing to work with, it was going to be much harder. Tony hoped he didn’t end up killing the boy. 

He pressed the nail to the corner of the node, but then hesitated. “Put a cloth over his mouth,” he told Wanda. “This might hurt. We can’t have him screaming.”

Wanda nodded.

Tony went back to the implant. It was attached to Peter’s nervous system, and he quickly realised that the only way to release it would be to stop Peter’s heart long enough to rip it out. The shock it would send through Peter’s system would then be enough to revive him. Any other damage it did, Peter would be able to heal from.

He relayed this back to Wanda, who grimaced. “Just like him to get into the worst of scraps,” she said before moving back to make room for them to lay Peter down. 

Tony glanced up at her. “It’s asking a lot, but—”

Without a word, Wanda put her hand down onto Peter’s chest. Her eyes were squeezed shut. Peter stopped breathing, and a single tear escaped down Wanda’s cheek. She wiped it away, holding Peter’s head to the side as Tony pried at the implant with the nail.

“Let go of him in three, two, one—” Tony jumped back as Peter’s body jerked, writhing on the floor as the shock overtook his body. “Wanda, now!”

A red haze surrounded Peter, and something crawled out of the tiny hole where the implant had been attached. Wanda wrinkled her nose at it. “What is that?”

“It should be a nanite,” Tony said, staring at it as it came closer to him. “But it’s not.” He stomped on it, grateful that the straw muffled the thump.

Wanda was checking Peter’s pulse. She let out a grateful huff of breath as she found it, looking up at Tony with relieved eyes. “He’s going to be okay,” she said.

Tony felt the relief of a life saved course through him. “Okay, we need to go, _now_.” He had no idea how much time they’d spent here, but it was far too much.

Wanda nodded, all business. She and Tony took one arm each, and Peter dangled between them as they made their way down the aisle to the exit of the barn. This time, Wanda peered out through the cracks as Tony unlocked the door, nodding to him to indicate that the coast was clear. 

They cracked it open, trying their best to get out with the entrance bared as little as they could get away with. Tony had never been a praying person, but he hoped now that some deity was on their side, rooting for their success. 

It was probably colder now; night had fallen, and fallen hard. But hauling Peter between the two of them kept them warm, breaths coming in short pants as they moved as fast as possible. Despite the fact that Peter was very malnourished, he was still a considerable weight. 

"We need two horses," Tony said, glancing towards the stables. They were leaning against the paddock fence, and Peter was now beginning to stir. But as groggy and out of it as he was, there was no way he would make the ride alone. 

Wanda gave a sharp nod. "We'll both need to go. I'll…" She turned towards Peter, leaning down to whisper something in an urgent tone. 

Then she stood. Tony took that to mean it was time to begin their horse-napping. 

They were practically old hats at this by now, Tony couldn't help thinking. And it was maybe that particular thought that made him careless, overly confident in his and Wanda's abilities.

Getting the horses out of the stalls was simple enough. They were docile creatures - all of them geldings bar an elderly mare - and had been trained incredibly well. Tony had extensive experience with horses, and turning to see how Wanda was doing proved the same for her. 

Seeing him looking, Wanda smiled. "Back in my hometown, we rode a lot. I miss that now, living in the city. It's not the same there." With that, she finished tacking up her steed, Bacchus.

The nameplate for Tony's read 'Caesar'. He stroked his face as he slipped the bridle on, cooing slightly. 

"Ready?" He said to Wanda. She nodded. 

They had grabbed rope to bind Peter to her back. In fact, they’d brought with them a saddlebag stuffed with trail mix, apples, a couple of lead ropes and halters. Leading the horses outside to the paddock where they'd left Peter resulted in nervous whickers; no matter how well adjusted they may be, it was pitch black outside and he and Wanda were strangers. Tony fed Caesar a carrot slice, hoping out would make them more amiable and giving Wanda a piece to do the same.

Peter was sitting upright when they arrived. Seeing them approach, he struggled to stand. Tony could see that his earlier assessment that Peter would be unable to ride alone was correct - he was swaying alarmingly where he stood, using the fence as a crutch. In the dim lighting, he was as pale as a ghost. 

"Peter, Tony's going to help you on, okay?" Wanda said. Her tone was one Tony hadn't heard her use on anyone before. 

Peter looked at her and gave a single nod. Tony hoped he wasn't going to be sick. 

He gave Wanda a leg-up, waiting for her to settle before turning to Peter. He was waiting beside Tony, but a good deal away from either of the horses. Tony found it rather strange; if he and Wanda were siblings, then assuming they had grown up together, Peter ought to be far more comfortable with the animals than he appeared to be. 

"Do you want a boost or the fence?" Tony asked him. 

"Fence," Peter said. His voice was raspy, as though he'd shredded his throat from screaming. 

Tony helped him over to the fence, letting Peter use his shoulder as a crutch as he got himself onto the first wooden panel. Wanda led Bacchus over, holding the pony’s head steady and quietly murmuring to him while Peter clumsily mounted. (It took a few goes – Bacchus seemed to know when Peter was about to make a move, and sidestep with ease.)

Wanda mounted, swinging herself up with a grace that Tony envied. He knew his own—

There were torchlights in the distance, and then shouts that got louder with every millisecond that passed. It was the hospital staff, obviously, and a trill of fear sparked through Tony’s body for reasons that he couldn’t explain. They had never treated him poorly, and he was a large public figure – surely there was nothing they could do to him – but that didn’t explain the blind terror that ran through him at the thought of being taken back, of being caught while trying to escape.

There was no way he could explain this away. What would he say? That they’d wanted to go on a ride? There were too many obstacles in the way of that happening – this was definitely a calculated and meticulously planned endeavour. Then there was the case of Peter Maximoff, who they were definitely not supposed to know was being kept in that barn.

Tony swallowed down the feeling of dread. “Wanda,” he said.

“No,” Wanda said immediately. “Get on your horse. We’re leaving. _No arguments_ ,” she added harshly when he opened his mouth.

Tony brought Caesar over to the fence to mount, limbs trembling for some unknown reason. His hands were shaky as they clutched the reins, and Caesar seemed to sense his anxiety, shuffling his feet uneasily. Tony finally settled into the saddle, and despite this whole course of action having taken thirty seconds, the voices had now turned into shapes that Tony could make out as people.

“Go!” he told Wanda, urging Caesar on and grabbing a handful of mane and the pommel to stop himself from slipping as he tried to find the stirrup for his right leg.

Wanda wasted no time. Her grip on the reins was confidant, releasing them to give Bacchus enough head to speed up. Despite the awkward grip balance she must’ve had, what with Peter being held between her arms, there was nothing uncomfortable about the way she rode. 

Tony followed suit. He still hadn’t managed to get his foot into the stirrup, but it wouldn’t matter. He gripped tight with his knees and the memory of years’ worth of riding lessons flowed back as though they’d been just yesterday.

What Tony had mistaken for torchlight was actually headlights of a car. Low and black, it gave off the vibes of a hearse as it chased them, and Tony wished the horse had blinders, because if that thing came within sight, there was no way Caesar wouldn’t spook— 

Something shot past his head, and Tony instinctively ducked, swearing. It hadn’t sounded like a bullet; it was probably a tranquiliser of some sort. He risked a glance behind him, and saw a figure leaning out of the window with a crossbow of all things in hand. Despite the terrain, they were gaining on them with remarkable speed.

Tony made a split-second decision. “Wanda,” he shouted. “You know where to go. Don’t stop, okay? Bring back help.” 

“Tony, _no_!”

Wanda’s cry was the last thing he heard; anything else she said was swept away by the wind as Tony turned, heading to the right – towards the other end of the mansion – and cutting directly across the car. As he’d anticipated, there was a screech of brakes and the sound of tires skidding on the damp grass as they followed him.

There was no other way for this to end, Tony knew, but he would lead them on a merry chase for as long as he could. He reached into the saddlebag, grabbed out an apple, and with cautious aim, chucked it behind him. Tony heard it make its impact, and smiled, moments before he felt something prick his arm. Reaching over, he yanked the dart out, but it was too late – the substance had already entered his bloodstream. He could feel himself starting to get drowsy.

He bit down into the next apple before he tossed it behind him again, doing the same with the remaining contents of the bag. No one would say that Tony Stark had gone down easy.

It seemed that his chasers knew that they’d struck him, because now they were only following behind him rather than making an effort to catch up. _Good_ , Tony thought. They weren’t going after Wanda and Peter. He slumped forward on Caesar, doing his best to hold on to the horse’s neck, but his grip was sloppy and he could no longer feel his arms. 

The last thing Tony knew before the tranquillisers knocked him out was the feeling of Caesar slowing down, and cold, cold hands coming to grab him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! Let me know what you think ^~^
> 
> Hmu on [tumblr](http://fanfictiongreenirises.tumblr.com)


	9. VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rescue mission that's taken almost 60k words to get to

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last full chapter!!!! After this, there's just the epilogue and then we're done ＼(^-^)／ 
> 
> There aren't any warnings in this that the tags don't cover.

Steve waited impatiently by the Quinjet for the rest of the team to get in. Strange had been commandeering them to get his gear in – Steve had assumed, this whole time, that his equipment was all stored in the pocket dimensions that Strange kept talking about, but it turned out that there were a few odds and ends that needed to be in this plane of existence in order to be operational.

He glanced impatiently at his watch, and fought the urge to sigh. They were running on time, but every second that ticked by was another second that they had Tony. _And Peter_ , he hastily added, feeling a wave of shame flood through him. He was Captain America, for god’s sake. He was meant to care about all people equally; Peter’s safety should be just as important to him as Tony’s.

But Tony was different, had always been different, and Steve couldn’t help feeling guilty that his thoughts kept lingering on his…his friend. He didn’t know what he and Tony were, anymore, but he could at least agree that they were friends. No matter how this turned out, they would be friends.

“Steve,” Jan’s voice crackled through the comms.

“Jan?” Steve tried not to let his frustration through, but he didn’t know whether he managed it. “Where is everyone?” If Carol, tired of his short mood, hadn’t banned him from the Mansion, he would’ve been in there at least half an hour ago, but after that time she had tossed him from a window when Steve had called her bluff, Steve didn’t want to risk it. 

“Living room. You need to see this.”

Steve wasted no time in jogging inside. The first thing he noticed when he entered the living room – the formal one, the one that was closer to the parlour where they entertained the press and other guests – was the whole team crowding around the couch. He cleared his throat, and Clint turned to look at him.

“Cap’s here,” he announced. 

Steve made his way to the front, to get a look at what was happening. Whatever he’d imagined – some sort of object, maybe; perhaps something had gone wrong with Stephen’s instruments – was dashed when he laid eyes on the couch.

“Oh my god,” he said, staring. “Wanda?”

Wanda had stood up when he’d appeared. “Steve,” she said, a small smile appearing on her face, mingling with something akin to relief. 

“You know me?” Whatever Steve had expected, this was nowhere near it. “And you found Peter…” The question he was itching to ask was there, on the tip of his tongue, but Wanda answered it for him before he could verbalise it.

“Tony didn’t make it out,” she said softly. At the sound of Steve’s harsh intake of breath, she quickly added, “But he’s alive. Or at least, he was, the last time I saw him. We were almost out when they came after us, and Tony turned back so we could escape.”

That was just like Tony, Steve thought, even as dread that had already built since he’d woken increased tenfold. The relief that Tony had woken and was able enough to escape with Wanda was shrouded in the shadow of the fact that they were most likely doing the same thing to him once again.

“Wanda,” he said, stepping closer. “I know this is asking a lot, but—”

“I’ll help you rescue him,” she interrupted. “He gave himself up for us, so we could come here and get you. It’s the least I can do.”

Steve nodded, letting out a breath. “Thank you,” he said.

He turned to Carol, who jumped into action. “Alright, team. Everyone on the ‘jet. We’re almost behind schedule.”

The team, which consisted of Captain America, Ms Marvel, the Wasp, Hawkeye, Bruce, Doctor Strange, and Black Widow, made their way to the Quinjet hangar with Wanda. At the last minute, Spider-Man appeared, having apparently gotten tangled up in something on his way there (Carol had called him, seeing as they were down an IT expert). Hank and Thor – as Don Blake now – were staying behind to watch over Peter, running tests on him to see what they’d done to him. Thor, Steve knew, would fly to join them if the situation with Peter could be handled by Hank alone.

The ride there was very short, especially in the Quinjet, but to Steve it took forever. At one point, he walked over to Wanda.

“How was he?” he asked. “Tony? They tortured him with something that gave him seizures, and he was still unconscious when I was brought back.”

Wanda frowned. “He didn’t remember any of that,” she told him. “He lost about a day. I had to tell him that he’d gotten sick and been booked into the hospital wing, because the last thing he remembered was the night before that.”

Steve nodded, jaw clenching at the thought of them – those _bastards_ – messing with Tony’s mind, damaging it to the point where he’d _forgotten an entire day_.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” Wanda said suddenly. She was staring straight ahead, gaze clearer than it’d been at any time when they’d been in the asylum. She didn’t look at Steve as she spoke. “My children aren’t, no matter how much I would like them to be. And it won’t ever feel okay, that they’re dead, and I’m still here, that the world is still spinning, but…” She shook her head, mouth twisting slightly. “I have responsibilities to people in my life. Tony reminded me that, when he sacrificed his chance of freedom for us.”

Steve didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t know how to comfort this woman, who seemed so incredibly familiar to him, like a word resting on the tip of his tongue. “Tony does that,” he said instead. “Making people see things they normally wouldn’t. And making the sacrifice play.” He resisted the urge to sigh, knowing that it would come out with a mixture of fondness and frustration. “He’d be happy to know that you’re doing alright. He liked you.” 

“The asylum was never meant to be permanent,” Wanda said. “It was just until I got my bearings. But I’d been there so long that I was becoming complacent, and the suppressants weren’t doing what they were supposed to. I think I would’ve wasted away there, with my boys, if Tony hadn’t woken me up.”

They landed in the copse of trees a distance away from the hospital. Steve locked away Steve Rogers and fell into Captain America. Tony needed him to be on his game; it wouldn’t do for his emotions to come out and ruin their chances of a clean rescue.

Strange let out a hum. “It’s a stew here,” he said.

Clint gave him a look. “A stew?”

“Thick with dark magic, much stronger and more potent than it typically is.” Strange sniffed a little, wrinkling his nose. Steve wondered how much of it was actually necessary and how much was for show, the performance of being a mysterious magician. “Whatever’s here has been lurking for a long time.”

“It isn’t going to be for much longer,” Jan said, that optimistic determination bubbling in her words.

There was a _whoosh_ as a SHIELD van pulled up beside them, sleek black with the only thing betraying the agency being the subtly placed logo. They had called a medical team to ensure the patients were all cared for as they evacuated the building. Steve hoped someone had organised the paperwork so the patients couldn’t legally be kept with SHIELD after this whole mess had been fixed – they’d proven time and time again that they couldn’t be trusted to protect the rights of the individual, and handing them a truckload of mentally unstable patients that not many people would ask after was the perfect opening for questionable recruitment methods.

“Okay,” Ms Marvel said. “Let’s do this.” She looked to Steve, who felt a real smile appear on his face for possibly the first time since he’d been brought back. It was good to be home.

“Avengers,” he said. “Assemble!”

* * *

Black Widow and Hawkeye had been sent inside first to get people out, with Thor waiting at the front entrance to carry them to the SHIELD agents. His presence was a relief in more ways than one. Steve watched them creep by the outskirts of the estate, around to where the main entrance was. Wanda had directed them along the path she and Peter had followed when they had escaped. She was currently in the Quinjet, on comms with them and watching through the monitors.

Steve hoped that the infiltration team were having more luck than they were, because the rest of the Avengers were currently fending off waves upon waves of what Strange was calling ‘lesser demons’. “Really, they’re barely demons,” he’d said, doing complicated hand movements as he spoke. Steve didn’t particularly care what they were, as long as he could punch through them and get to the building.

They weren’t invulnerable – in fact, they broke far too easily. The demons were very cliché in appearance; they were the size of the average five-seater car in length, but skeletal in width, with their skin made up of shiny black scales. Their eyes were yellow, as were their teeth, but when Steve swung his shield at them, thrusting it at them to protect himself from a hit, they crumpled into themselves as though unable to handle the pressure of their own body against a solid object.

Steve threw his shield like a frisbee, and it flew through the air, slicing through the hordes with the elegance of a dancer. The demons it made its way through barely seemed to impact its course, as though they were nothing but air. But it was no use, because the second one died, another took its place, and there was always a barrier of teeth and venomous claws between them and the asylum.

They were sloppily created as a means to an end, Stephen told them. The demons were meant to hold them back, to give their masters time to prepare themselves. The demon – the one who had been summoned here – was protecting its investments.

Steve gritted his teeth and fought for even a single step. It was slow, too slow. The team was taking far too long; their plans, however open to change, would fall apart instantly if they couldn’t get into the basement.

He was fighting with an aggression he never usually showed, he knew. His fists landed with punches he wanted to throw at Tony’s captors, at Vandran and at that girl he’d befriended who had betrayed him. He swung kicks fuelled by the frustration of being unable to get through this goddamn horde and find Tony.

“Steve,” Jan said. “We’re going to make an opening in a few seconds, and it’ll last for barely that. When it comes, don’t wait.”

“Jan, thank you,” Steve said. He fought with determination, keeping an eye out for that hole in their defence that would come anytime now…

He saw it. Carol lit up her fists, and Steve knew, instinctively, that he had to run forward, into that blinding hole she had just made. He could hear them behind him, still fighting, and hoped that the demons would slow down now that one had managed to escape.

Steve crossed the lawn, that perfectly maintained lawn that he had wanted to touch so badly, within seconds. It was really not that far when you were running full pelt, he thought. Much smaller than it’d looked when he’d looked out at it from the mansion, gazing into the distant trees and wanting nothing more than to be real again.

The inside of the mansion was mayhem. The bell was ringing, the shrill sound piercing his eardrums. Steve winced. There were patients being herded by the staff, but others who had run off weren’t being chased – there was just not enough of them to deal with those who were running towards the Avengers.

Steve looked around for Tony amongst the crowd even though he didn’t expect him to be there. If any of the others found him, they would let him know, but so far there had been silence from the infiltration and rescue team. Every face that passed Steve that wasn’t Tony added to the kernels of worry winding itself deep in his chest.

Steve kept forgetting he was no longer incorporeal as he ran through them, getting disgruntled huffs as he swerved from running into them at the last minute. He had to get into the basement.

It was quieter near where the entrance was. Steve threw open the door and raced down the stairs, even as he dreaded what he would find. He knew that there was a chance that they’d put Tony in isolation, or locked him in his room, or put him in the hospital wing, but some part of him believed that this was where he would find him.

Besides, he had a job to do, as Captain America. And he’d told himself that it was what Tony would’ve wanted him to do first before he got rescued. Hell, there was a chance that Tony had rescued himself already and was helping the patients get out. There was no reason for him to believe that Tony was in the basement, in that same condition on the operation table like Steve had seen him in only days ago.

A man was standing there when Steve reached the room. His back was to Steve, but Steve recognised him instantly.

“Captain America,” Vandran said. His voice was strange. It echoed through the room, the noise sinking into the walls like ink seeping into cloth. Something about him was different. “I assume you came for your teammate.”

“I did,” Steve said. “I came for you, too, doctor. You can still stop this. Come with us quietly, give up this whole mess. I can get your sentence lowered.” 

Vandran chuckled quietly. This time, it almost sounded human. “My dear boy, why would I do that, when I have all this?” He gestured with his arms, holding them out.

Then he turned his body to face Steve for the first time, and seeing his face, Steve couldn’t hold back the startled step he took. Vandran’s eyes were no longer what they had been the last time Steve had seen him. Now, they shone like a beetle, glassy and unseeing, but all-knowing.

That part of Steve, the part he didn’t like to humour, the part that was ugly and vengeful and aggressive, felt a rush of sick pleasure at being given a chance to fight the man that had hurt Tony.

Steve clipped the shield onto his arm, feet automatically planting onto the ground and arms coming up in a defensive stance, waiting for the other man to come to him. Vandran didn’t hesitate. He threw the first punch that Steve blocked with the shield. The impact, however, sent him sliding back a few feet, the shock of it jarring his arm. Whatever deal Vandran had made, it had amplified his mortal vessel in ways that Steve hadn’t anticipated.

But Steve wasn’t the average human. He’d sparred with Thor and Hercules, with Carol Danvers. And Tony was on the other side of this fight; he couldn’t let him down. Not when he’d come this far.

Sucking in a breath, Steve leapt up, springing off the wall behind him to deliver a solid kick to Vandran’s torso, planting both feet onto his chest. Vandran dropped with a loud clatter, bringing down with him the trays with syringes and surgical tools with him as he fell. Steve clambered to his feet instantly, sweeping his leg across the back of Vandran’s knees to bring him down once again.

But this time Vandran landed in a controlled fall, twisting in a way that wasn’t humanly possible to pull Steve on top of him. Steve did his best to shake him off – he had the upper hand here, being atop Vandran as opposed to beneath – but the iron grip the doctor had with his legs around Steve’s calves meant that he was essentially trapped until he could find some way to loosen Vandran’s grip.

The two of them tussled for a while – or for a few seconds – each one dealing their own punches and hits as they tried to bring the other down. Steve panted as he rolled, forcing Vandran to be trapped underneath him. The cowl was the only thing preventing sweat from dripping into his eyes. He grabbed Vandran around the neck, doing his best to choke him into unconscious. Vandran hit his hands first, and then, when he found there to be little weakness to exploit, punched Steve in the stomach, doing his best to make him loosen his grip enough for Vandran to slip out. His hands returned to Steve’s grip over his windpipe at the very end just as he lost conscious, weakly scrabbling over Steve’s wrists.

Vandran’s grip over Steve’s body was gone entirely, and Steve sat back, breathing heavily. The haze of a fight was still there, brightening his instincts. He needed to tie up Vandran and then go—

With an unearthly shriek, Vandran’s unconscious body seized up and floated. His muscles were stiff, as though with post-mortem, and there was something unnatural about the way he held his head.

Steve got to his feet shakily, wondering whether he ought to call Strange.

Vandran’s eyes snapped open, pitch black once again but this time all-seeing, all-knowing. He tilted his head to the side at a speed that would’ve cracked the neck of a normal human. When he spoke, the words weren’t in any language Steve had ever heard. Vandran’s tongue, now a sluggish black colour in patches, stuck out at odd angles that didn’t match with the sounds his mouth made, as though it was a nuisance.

Then the words came, in a raspy English. “You are a man of justice,” the demon possessing Vandran said. “This man has made a deal with me. I am to receive a thousand and one souls in return for granting him power beyond his wildest dreams. And you, mortal, are standing in our way. I only seek to take what is rightfully mine.”

“Those souls weren’t the doctor’s to give away,” Steve said. “They don’t belong to you, or anyone but themselves. Tell me, have you left Vandran alive, or is he one of the souls owed to you?” 

“He is alive,” Vandran’s voice said. “But not for much longer. I have no use for him now that he cannot repay his debts.”

Vandran attacked him almost before he’d finished speaking, leaping at him in a manner eerily akin to Spider-Man. He was onto Steve almost before Steve could raise the shield, clawing and screeching with a pitch that was debilitating. Steve cringed at the noise, part of him wanting nothing more than to curl into a ball and cover his ears. He was sure his ears were bleeding, at this point.

Lifting the shield a little higher, Steve grabbed the closest object he could find and stabbed it into Vandran. It was pure chance that it’d happened to be a pair of surgical scissors. Apparently he could still be hurt, a fact that gave Steve grim relief. He dug the scissors deeper into the man, thrusting the shield forward and hitting upwards with his knee. Vandran keeled backwards, giving Steve the opening he needed to break away from the trapped position by the wall to the middle of the room.

Vandran pulled the scissors out of his body, a gush of black liquid coming out. He lunged for Steve, but Steve was ready.

He threw his shield, hitting Vandran at the knees and resulting in a resounding crack. The shield came back to him, as it always did, and Steve caught it just before he jumped, spinning in the air and delivering a roundhouse kick that sent Vandran reeling.

Steve, up to this point, hadn’t underestimated his opponent, but it seemed that Vandran had. Now, the other man (demon?) stood up with shaky legs, and before Steve eyes could track his movements, threw something towards him.

Steve staggered slightly, hand going to his side where a surgical knife stuck out. It was probably nothing vital, he reasoned, and yanked it out before throwing himself back into the fray. The demon now utilised everything that Vandran had done, from the dirty fighting to the movements that were purely human in nature.

Vandran now kicked and bit at Steve, using everything he could to get the upper hand. He lashed out with his magic, but there had to be something there that Steve didn’t truly understand, because there was no way that a demon with the power that Strange had described would lower themselves to the _baseness_ (Stephen’s words, not his) of humanity without there being some reason.

Steve raised a hand to the comms unit in his cowl, flipping to the channel with Strange and Wanda. Before he could even get a word out, Vandran lifted an operating table and slammed it down, leaving Steve to brace himself under the shield, grunting with the pressure.

“Captain? Is everything alright?” a voice came crackling through.

“Strange,” Steve gritted out, shoving upwards with the shield. He threw off Vandran, but not nearly as easily as he liked to admit. “Vandran’s been possessed by the demon he summoned, but now I don’t think Vandran’s conscious – or even alive – anymore.”

“I’m on my way to you,” Strange said. There was an odd whooshing sound over the comms as he spoke. “Are you still in the basement?”

“Yes,” Steve said. His voice came out panting; he had no idea how long he’d been fighting for. “It almost feels like the demon’s holding back…? Would that be something it would do?” 

There was a pause for a moment, where Steve blocked and parried blows that were showered his way. He didn’t know whether he could knock a demon unconscious, and there was no time for him to draw a pentagram into the ground.

“Steve, I think his only power source are the souls he’s harvested. If he doesn’t seem to be as powerful as he should be, it must be because he’s either running low, or he’s saving up his energy.”

The latter of those wasn’t an appealing thought, but the former Steve could get behind. He just had to wear the demon out, keep fighting with him and make him use up as much of the soul energy he’d fed on as he could. 

“Strange, one last thing.” Steve ducked as a chair came flying towards him. “Is there any way to return the souls?”

The pause on the other end was answer enough, and Steve knew even before Strange said that soft, “no”, that there was no hope for the people already taken.

He sucked in a breath. This only made it easier, he reasoned. If Tony’s soul had been harvested, then there was no way of getting him back, and Tony wouldn’t want him to risk lives to try.

But the part of Steve that lived in hope swung his shield fiercely in an attempt to, once again, knock Vandran unconscious.

At that moment, a loud crash reverberated in the air behind him. Steve spun around, expecting it to be yet another threat, shield raised high even as half his mind focused on Vandran.

“Strange,” he breathed out instead, a genuine smile spreading over his face. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you right now.”

Strange smiled, but whatever he’d been about to say was ripped from his mouth as Vandran attacked again. Strange moved his hands, a green light appearing out of thin air.

“What’s the game plan?” Steve asked, attacking from the other side.

“Wanda helped Wong and I to devise a sort of reverse summoning circle,” Strange said. “All we need to do is replace the symbols on the walls, burn a few things – herbs and the like – and then there’s a chant.”

“Oh, that’s all?” Steve muttered.

Strange’s mouth turned up a little, but that was all the acknowledgement he gave to Steve’s words.

“I’ll distract him,” Steve said. “You do what you have to do.” 

This time the fight was different. Now that there was a surefire way of stopping Vandran, Steve’s moves were more controlled, more goal-oriented, rather than testing hypotheses on what Vandran was and was not vulnerable to. He did his best to keep the battle away from where Strange was, but the room was small, and Vandran knew what they were planning.

Strange let out a curse as Steve hit the wall he’d been painting a symbol onto for the third time. He threw out a hand behind him, not stopping his drawing to look at where he pointed, and shot out a beam of light.

Vandran let out one of those high-pitched wails that Steve detested, crumbling slightly. But only a second later, he regained his feet, coming at the two of them with renewed hate. Steve stood at Strange’s back, ready with the shield. He threw it at Vandran’s head, and while the demon was distracted, Steve jumped through the air and delivered a move Natasha had drilled into him during months of sparring practise.

Landing on Vandran’s shoulders, he squeezed with his thighs even as he clasped both hands together and pounded down on his head. Then, when this had very little impact on the man, he spun around and dragged Vandran down with him, effectively choking the man with his grip. 

Behind him, Steve could hear Strange beginning the chant. He didn’t know how long it was; he needed to keep Vandran contained for the duration of it. Vandran struggled, and it was déjà vu how he clawed at Steve’s arms. This time, his scratching was far more effective: his nails broke through the already abused suit with relative ease, and Steve gritted his teeth as Vandran broke skin, lines of red emerging as he dug his fingers in. 

Just as Steve was about to release his grip in exchange for more punching, Vandran’s head thudded back to the ground. The veins around his eyes, which had looked so eerie and inhuman to Steve before, were more pronounced now. Red lined them, as though the blood trickled out and down, before being replaced by a black so dark it looked to have been drawn on with charcoal.

Something was emerging out of his mouth too. Steve watched in disgust from where he was still sitting astride Vandran as a long centipede-like creature came out of the body. He lifted the shield, wanting to wait until more of it was out before he sliced into it.

Strange intervened before he could. With a flair of his hands and a few muttered words, the bug disappeared. 

Steve looked at him in question, and Strange shrugged. “I wish to study it,” he said.

Steve’s mouth twisted, but already the urge to find Tony was upon him. He got up shakily, all the wounds from the fight making themselves known. Leaning on the upturned table beside him to help himself up, Steve stumbled down the hall towards that other room where Tony had been held the time before.

Before this point, he hadn’t thought about the logistics behind Tony’s condition. Steve’s only thought had been getting to him, rescuing him, freeing him from Vandran. He hadn’t stopped to consider what they’d do if Tony’s soul had already been bartered away – if he had, there had been a chance that he would’ve either gone mad with the what-ifs and into a battle frenzy, or crumpled into a ball and never come out to face a world without a Tony Stark.

Steve broke into the room, door hitting the wall behind it with a deafening thud. Sharp eyes took in the scene before him, but there was no bracing himself for the sight before him.

It was another case of déjà vu, one that Steve had never wanted to experience again.

Tony was strapped down to the operating table, still in a way that made Steve’s breath catch in his throat. Beside him, on the table, was a tray of the same surgical equipment Vandran had only moments ago been pinning at Steve. These, however, were stained with red, the liquid still wet. The entire room was spotted with vials of chemicals, all in different colours, none of them labelled. Steve recognised the liquid that they’d filled Tony’s body with the last time, and a feeling like no other filled him. Any one of these could be running through Tony’s system right at this moment.

Steve rushed over to Tony, the pounding of blood through his body making him forget anything at that moment that wasn’t the man on the table. Close up, he could see the sigils symbols carved into Tony’s torso, into his arms and legs. They didn’t seem to be anything too severe – nothing to attribute the deathly pallor to.

Tony wasn’t attached to a heart monitor; Steve placed his fingers to his pulse, closing his eyes and, for the first time in a long time, whispering a prayer. _Please_ , he thought, to anyone that could hear him. _Please, not him_. _Spare him._

He couldn’t feel a pulse. Steve’s fingers dug deeper, changed their position slightly. Maybe he was doing this wrong. Maybe Vandran had done something to him to make the sensation in his fingertips numb. He changed hands, working awkwardly but still managing to place his fingers correctly.

There was still nothing. This time, Steve had no excuse. He removed his fingers, hands working automatically to release Tony from the ties. He remembered those movies he’d watched with the team, where after that great battle and the great loss, the hero of the film would be on their knees, throwing their head back and _howling_ with the sheer pain. Steve’s grief had never been like that. 

Tony’s head lolled now that Steve’s hands were no longer holding it in place. One of his arms slipped off the table. Steve hurried to put it back on. Then, unable to stand Tony being on that table where he’d been tortured to the point of _death_ , he lifted him up. One arm slid under Tony’s bony knees, and another went around his shoulders. With a bit of fiddling, he made sure Tony’s head didn’t hang. Steve placed Tony gently on the ground, lowering him softly. He grabbed a clean towel from one of the benches and put Tony’s head on it, not wanting it to be on the hard ground.

That was when the floodgates broke, and Steve let out a soundless sob. It was ironic, wasn’t it? That after all this, all that he and Tony had done, they would still end with one of them dead. Was Tony watching him now, as he had been watching over Tony? Steve had been sure that Tony could feel his presence; he couldn’t feel Tony’s gaze on him as he crouched beside his still body, unable to remove his grip from Tony’s still hands.

The loss of a future left Steve reeling. They had spent just a single afternoon – a matter of hours, at most – planning their first date. That had been the most peaceful the two of them had been since this whole thing had begun. That had been the most content and relaxed Tony had been, off the medication and away from the prying eyes of the staff. The fact that Tony hadn’t remembered that moment was yet another blow.

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispered. “God, Tony, I’m so sorry.” He cradled Tony’s head, tears streaming down his cheeks. “You deserved so much better than this. I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner. I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance.”

He leaned his head down to place his forehead against Tony’s. His skin was so, so cold, but not cold enough that he’d been dead for a lengthy period of time. Steve didn’t want to think about how long Tony had been lying there in pain, knowing Steve was nearby – God, he hoped Tony knew he was coming for him. The alternative, the thought that Tony didn’t know he was going to be rescued, that there was a whole team coming to get him out, didn’t bear thinking. 

Steve’s eyes snapped open. “Tony?” he said with a shaky voice. Because at that moment, in the silence of his grief, he could’ve sworn he’d heard Tony’s heart beating.

Pressing his ear to Tony’s chest, Steve let out another sob, this time of pure, unadulterated relief. He lifted his hand to the comms, barking for a medical team to get down here. Then, once he was sure they knew where he and Tony were, Steve turned back to Tony.

“C’mon, Shellhead,” he said. “Wake up.”

All the medical training that Steve had ever learnt came flooding back to him, and Steve got Tony ready to be turned over onto his side. The arm closest to Steve went under his body, and just as Steve went to turn Tony, Tony stirred.

“Steve?” he said, voice so quiet that if Steve hadn’t been this close to him, if he hadn’t had heightened hearing, he would’ve missed it.

“Tony,” Steve said, momentarily overcome by relief like no other. “How do you feel?”

“I’m fine,” Tony replied immediately, voice still dazed and distant. “Nothing a good sleep won’t cure.”

Steve let out a wet laugh. “You scared me. I thought you were dead.” Wiping he eyes with the back of a hand, he said, “Don’t do that again.”

“I’ll try not to.” Tony tried to sit up, and Steve helped him up, moving to lean Tony against the legs of the table. Tony cracked an exhausted smile. “Thought you’d abandoned me.”

Steve handed him the flask of water, helping him take a sip. “Never,” he said fiercely. “I’ll never leave you. That’s not something you ever have to worry about.”

That was when Tony’s eyes practically popped out of his head, growing wide in a way that Steve thought unhealthy. “Oh my god.” His voice was small. “ _Steve.”_

“Tony?” Steve moved closer, wondering where on earth that med team was. “What’s wrong.”

But Tony’s face cracked open into a smile more genuine than Steve had seen in a while. His fingers traced over the chainmail of Steve’s suit, running over the white star with reverence. “Maybe I _am_ dead,” he whispered, almost to himself.

“You’re definitely alive,” Steve told him. He could hear footsteps now, loud but uniform. “Don’t worry, SHIELD’s medical team are here. They’ll patch you up, and you’ll be good in no time.”

Tony’s fingers wrapped around his wrist. “Stay?” he whispered, eyes gazing into Steve’s just as they’d done only days ago. His face showed a vulnerability that Tony never would’ve exposed under normal circumstances.

Steve didn’t hesitate. “Of course,” he said. “Always. You don’t even have to ask.”

Tony’s mouth was desperate as it planted over his. Steve hadn’t thought he’d even had the energy to make the kiss as frantic as it was. Steve brought his hands up to cradle Tony’s face the way he’d always wanted to, running his fingers in the hair that had grown long, strands curling around the base of Tony’s neck.

Tony gasped into Steve’s mouth, and Steve responded in like, pulse beating like it hadn’t during that entire fight with Vandran. He moved up to his knees, leaning forward to kiss Tony. Tony’s heart was no longer the still, silent thing that it’d been when Steve had found him. Now, it was pumping loudly in his chest; Steve didn’t even need to concentrate to hear it.

Tony’s lips were chapped and dry under Steve’s, and his mouth was still cold from before. And yet, it was one of the best kisses Steve had ever had. He could hardly believe it, that after all this time, all these circumstances where one or both of them weren’t supposed to come out alive, they had both miraculously survived. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it lowkey gives me such a high even writing steve saying 'avengers assemble' like i can't imagine what it'd be like to create a panel w it
> 
> Thanks for reading!! Let me know what you think, and my [tumblr's](https://fanfictiongreenirises.tumblr.com) always open ^~^


	10. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the asylum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gotta say, this time last year I didn't think I'd be here with a finished fic posted on ao3, but here we are. (I'm in shock like I can't wrap my head around the fact that I've actually finished this and it's all been posted.) Thank you so much to all of my readers, who've stuck with this story for so long. This is my first Stony chapter fic, so I wasn't really sure how the feedback would be, but everyone's been absolutely amazing and I can't thank you all enough <3

_**"Every heart has its own melody. You know mine."** _

Tony woke with a start, gasp of breath ripping out of his throat as he jerked forward. He had no idea what he’d dreamt of – or _whether_ he’d dreamt at all – but whatever had plagued him was haunting even without memory.

A number of things registered as sleep truly left him. The beeping of a monitor beside him – in fact, the beeping of _multiple_ monitors. That smell of antiseptic wipes. The raspy feel of hospital sheets. The clean whiteness of the room he was in.

Then, the last fact, the one that he’d told his mind to ignore, but it hadn’t.

He needed to process everything else before he got to it.

He hadn’t thought he’d make it to whatever hospital he was at now. His last thoughts had been of acceptance, after hours upon hours of fighting against whatever they’d pumped into his body to keep him awake and fully aware as they’d carved demonic symbols into his skin. Apparently the demon only accepted souls when the bodies had been prepped properly.

He’d lay there, knowing that this was it, that maybe Wanda and Peter had gotten away, and maybe they’d gotten to the Mansion and found the Avengers, and _maybe_ there was a rescue coming his way. But Tony was a realist. He knew that the chances of the Maximoffs escaping and making it to the Mansion were slim at best, and even if they did make it and convinced the team, what were the odds that they would get there in time to save Tony? 

Tony had had few regrets. Most of them surrounded not getting to say goodbye to his friends. He had no recollection of what had been in the contents of the last letter he’d sent to the Mansion, just that he’d complained about the flower arrangements sitting in front of his room, telling Jan that he was sure she could do better.

He’d never thought he’d get another chance to try again. To go back and be a better Avenger, a better teammate and leader, a better friend and a better person. He had another go, and he had no idea what he’d done to deserve it.

Because if he looked to his left, he could see a figure slumped in one of those uncomfortable hospital chairs placed by the beds. He could see the little details that assured him that the figure was, in fact, very real. The sunlight streaming in from the window at the other end of the room shone off the man’s blond hair, lighting individual strands into gold. The man’s head was tipped backwards; he was evidently asleep in the chair, with one hand hanging off the chair and the other resting in his lap. There was a vase on the table beside him, filled with larkspurs and red carnations.

Bandages were around each wrist, and there was another thicker wrapping of white around one of his thighs. Bruises marked his face, very fresh according to the colour. Tony winced inwardly at how they would look the following day. There were deep circles under his eyes, and the beginnings of a beard were starting to show. His hair, despite how it looked in the sunlight, was oily and unruly; it hadn’t been tended to in a few days. 

Tony struggled to sit up. He needed to be in a position that felt less vulnerable; lying on his back like this only served to remind him of his time in the basement, strapped to that table.

Steve stirred, blinking slowly at the sound of Tony moving. Tony froze, watching as sleep left Steve and he registered that Tony was awake.

“Good morning,” Tony said. To his credit, his voice didn’t even shake at the sight of Steve sitting there like he’d imagined him to be so many times since his death. “I have to hand it to you, you aren’t even fading in and out now. Is it something to do with the ley lines, or…? Where are we, actually?”

Steve opened his mouth, and then closed it, running a hand through his hair. He turned to Tony, holding out a hand. “I’m not dead,” he said simply, a tentative smile on his face. “Here.”

Tony didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to take the leap of faith Steve was offering him. But Tony wasn’t Iron Man for nothing.

Holding in a breath, he reached out and took Steve’s hand. It was warm in his grasp, smooth – nothing like Tony’s own. Tony stared in shock as Steve’s hand cradled his own, his other coming to sandwich Tony’s. That was all Tony’s body apparently needed to betray him; he sucked in a breath harshly, the sound coming out wet. He reached up with his free hand to wipe at his face, unable to believe that after all this, after Steve being resurrected, he would still _cry_ —

Instead of moving away, as Tony expected when Steve pulled his hands away, Steve lifted them up to Tony’s face, rubbing his thumbs under Tony’s eyes. Tony moved back, this time.

“Sorry,” he said. “Happy tears, I swear.”

“You have nothing to apologise for,” Steve told him. He moved the railing on Tony’s bed down, coming to sit on it. “You’ve been through a lot. We’re in a SHIELD facility, to answer your question.”

“Oh.” Tony had no idea what to say to that. He wanted nothing more than to grab hold of Steve, not let him out of his sight until he finally grew accustom to this new feeling of having Steve _alive_ —

But he couldn’t help thinking of that one night of confessions and happiness, and wonder where they stood now.

“They had to keep you in a medically induced coma to get all of that drug out of your system – not that they had to work hard to do that, mind you: you were already closer to unconscious than anyone has a right to be. They really did a number on you.” Steve had taken hold of Tony’s hand again, and was studying it like it was the Bible. “Your heart almost gave out twice. They said, if it weren’t for the arc reactor...” He swallowed, grip momentarily tightening, before Steve loosened it once more. Steve was always conscious of how his strength would affect others.

“Did you get them? Vandran and—and Mavis?” Her name sparked a note of bitter resignation within Tony. 

Steve nodded. “Vandran’s body was pretty broken by the demon even before I got there. He was hanging on with the last bit of his strength when he was fighting me. And then the demon took over, and didn’t care much for his body. Strange has it now. Says he wants to study it.” 

Tony snorted. “Of course he does.”

Steve smiled a bit at that, looking up at Tony through his lashes. “Pepper and Happy left just an hour ago,” he told him. “They were here all day, waiting for you to wake up, but Pepper said something about you probably being too afraid to wake up in her presence, after all the trouble you’d gotten yourself into.” 

Tony’s lips upturned into a real smile at that, and a wave of homesickness washed over him. “She’s probably not wrong,” he said. “So I take it Wanda and Peter made it to you?”

Steve nodded. “They got there just as we were about to leave.” He paused, then shook his head. “I think Wanda should be the one to tell you her story, actually. She’s still around in the canteen, I think. Peter’s still back at the Mansion. I don’t think he trusts us much.”

“Can’t blame him, really,” Tony said. He was still looking at Steve with that haunted expression, the one that spoke of salvation, as though Steve were the lagoon in the middle of the desert.

“I’ll send Wanda in,” Steve said, knowing that he and Tony would need to talk, and that their conversation wouldn’t leave time for anyone else.

* * *

Wanda slipped in quietly, soundless enough that Tony almost didn’t notice her. She was wearing jeans and a jacket this time, and Tony almost missed her being in the summer clothes that he’d been sure would make her freeze to death.

“Hey,” he said, a real smile lighting his face at the sight of her safe and sound. “You made it.”

“I made it,” she said with an answering smile, coming over to give him a hug. “I’m just glad you did, too. I’d never have forgiven myself for leaving you if you’d—” 

“You didn’t leave me behind,” Tony interrupted. “I gave myself up so you and Peter would have a chance to escape. And it all turned out okay, anyway.”

Wanda let out a huff of laughter. “You remind me of a friend I had, once. I miss him, even though he’s not someone I usually think about when I think of the people I’ve left behind.”

“So,” Tony began, “am I going to get some answers about you? Because I have to admit, I’m insanely curious, now that I’m not drugged to the gills.”

Wanda squeezed his hand. “I think I just might tell you. It’s lonely, being in a world where no one knows you, even though you know all of them. 

“I did something wrong. _Bad_ , you might say. Actually, ‘horrible’, ‘villainous’, and ‘criminal’ would probably cover it better.” Wanda sighed, looking as though the words were sapping her energy by the mere merit of being spoken. “I ran away. To this world. And I basically replaced the Wanda Maximoff of this universe and wiped everyone’s memory of her. I also apparently dragged a version of my brother from another universe to this one. It must’ve been a distant universe, because he’s never heard of me – I don’t exist in his world – and he’s _American_ , too.” She smiled fondly. “That was strange for me, at first. A Pietro who’s so young, compared to my twin. So innocent.” Her smile faded. “He didn’t deserve what he went through, being here with me.”

Tony didn’t know what to say. Instead, he shuffled forward a little until his legs dangled off the edge, shoulder brushing against Wanda’s as he tried to offer comfort in the only way he could think of.

“I don’t actually know how I ended up in the asylum,” Wanda said. Her fingers played with a bracelet as she spoke. “I don’t know where I got the pills to suppress my powers from. And I don’t know why I don’t remember. Not knowing scares me more than anything else, because the one thing I do know is what I’m capable of.”

There was silence for a few minutes before Tony cleared his throat. “Wanda, you’re welcome to stay with us until you figure everything out, okay? Even after… it doesn’t matter what happens, or what you find out – you’ll still have a place at the Mansion. I’ve known you for… okay, I don’t actually know how long, but for a while. And in that time, I didn’t see anything that would make me think you’re anything but a good person. Misled, maybe, but good deep down. No matter what mistakes you made, it doesn’t change that.”

Wanda’s expression was pained. “Tony, you wouldn’t say that if you knew the person I had taken from you. And in bringing Peter here, I overwrote the Pietro Maximoff as well. I don’t want you to make any promises until I set things right.”

* * *

“When can I leave?” 

Steve sighed, but the sound was fond. “You have to let them do more tests on you, and then only if they say you can go. The nurse said they’ll do them in an hour or so.”

“Steve…” Tony didn’t want to be a bother, but he also didn’t want to be alone. It seemed like his friends had taken turns keeping watch over him, but now that he was essentially okay, he didn’t want to be left to his own devices for the duration of his stay.

Steve seemed to understand what he was saying. He came and sat down on the bed by Tony. “Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.” Then he paused, and looked at Tony as he chewed his lip in a way that couldn’t be healthy for the tissue. “Actually, I figured we should talk.”

“That’s not at all terrifying to hear…” Tony muttered.

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad,” Steve told him with a nervous smile. “Tony, listen… I know this probably isn’t the time, but I haven’t forgotten what you said that night. I want you to know…even if you change your mind now, or you don’t feel the same, or you don’t want to be in a relationship – whatever the reason, whatever you decide you want, or don’t want, I still feel the same. I still love you, am still in love with you.” 

A laugh broke out before Tony could swallow it down. “Steve,” he said, eyes dancing at the absurdity. He tried to get Steve to understand. “Steve. You've played the starring role in my life since before I even knew the real you. I haven’t been the main character of my own story since the day we found you.”

Steve opened his mouth, to say what, he didn’t know.

Tony continued. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? That because my world orbits around you, the second you were taken out of the equation everything fell apart.” He paused for a moment, before continuing. “Steve. Of course I love you, and of course I want this. You have to know. Surely, you must know, how gone I am over you. How gone I’ve always been over you.”

Steve ran a hand through his hair. “Tony, I… I have no idea what to say to that.”

“You aren’t having second thoughts, are you?”

“No, of course not. I just… I hate to be the catalyst keeping you from everything that happened after I died. I’m only human, Tony. Not something that belongs on a pedestal like that.”

Tony withdrew a little, but didn’t knock off Steve’s hand that was still on his shoulder, rubbing it gently with a thumb. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just… you know me. It’s how I love, I guess. All in or bust. I can’t promise I’ll be perfectly fine if—if anything happens, if we end up no longer friends, or if you die, but I’ll try—”

“Whoa,” Steve interrupted. “Who said anything about not being friends?” At Tony’s questioning look, he sighed. “Tony, no matter what happens, we’ll always be friends. That’s a promise. I don’t know what our future holds, and while I’m optimistic that it’s going to be good, I know that there’ll be the bad along with the good, and all I can say is that I won’t give up on you that easily. Not on our friendship, our relationship as teammates, or our relationship as—” Steve’s voice stumbled and the tips of his ears flushed slightly, “—as lovers.” 

“I’m going to hold you to that,” Tony said. “I can’t promise that I’ll be able to move on or anything if you ever die—”

“If?” Steve snorted. “Tony, I’m not immortal—” 

Tony whacked his arm lightly, happy that they were getting back to what they used to be. “As I was saying before you rudely interrupted me, all I can promise is that I’ll try my best. I’ll probably be messed up for a while, but at least it’ll probably go better than this time, right?”

“I’m okay with that,” Steve told him. “Can I kiss you now?”

Tony blinked in surprise before a broad smile spread across his face. Without responding, he moved his face closer to Steve, scrutinising his face for any hesitation or second thoughts, before he closed the gap, pressing their mouths together.

This wasn’t their first kiss, but it was the first one that counted. Tony didn’t remember their first kiss much, and it was just as well. Because Tony may have murdered anyone who gave him spoilers to the feeling of Steve’s mouth pressed onto his own. That being said, there was absolutely nothing to describe how it felt, to run his hands through Steve’s hair for the first time, to feel those strands like he’d fantasised for so many years, to feel the gasps against his mouth and knowing that he was the one who’d made Steve sound like that. 

Steve turned around so he didn’t have to crane his neck to kiss Tony, clambering onto the hospital bed on all fours and settling with one leg hanging off the bed. Tony leaned forward to meet him halfway, not eager to break away from Steve. He chased Steve’s lips, bright now from Tony, hoping Steve couldn’t hear his heart hammering away in his chest. 

Breath was coming out in harsh pants as Steve’s mouth traced a path along Tony’s jawline, one hand coming to thread through his hair to tug his head back so Steve had access to the little hollow behind Tony’s ears, to his neck, to his collarbones. Tony was gasping by the time Steve made his way back to Tony’s mouth, pouring out the buzzing frenzy Steve had left in his veins into kissing Steve with everything he had, and more.

Heat unfurled in the spaces between them as they kissed endlessly, uninterrupted by anyone outside their little bubble. Steve shivered against him, and electricity ran through Tony until he had to break away, panting for breath.

“Wait,” he said, trying to catch his breath. The look in Steve’s eyes, dazed, was almost enough to make him forget whatever he was about to say. “Can we take it slow?”

“Of course,” Steve said immediately. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“Oh, I want to,” Tony told him, watching as the blood rushed to Steve’s face at his words. “Trust me, I want to. I just… I want to take you out on a date first, y’know? It’s probably weird coming from me, of all people, I know, but—”

“How about tomorrow?” Steve interrupted, stopped Tony before he could continue. “We could do your first date first, and then mine, or the other way around, make a whole day of it.”

Tony smiled. “It’s a date, then.” He didn’t thank Steve, and Steve was glad for that.

In the end, Steve stayed with Tony at the hospital for the night, a very high school haze coming over everything as they alternated between talking and kissing. Finally, as Steve’s breathing fell away to something deeper, Tony lay there, watching his chest rise and fall. He knew it would probably be a while before he got used to waking up and seeing a living, breathing Steve beside him, and a while longer before he would automatically exercise his right to kiss Steve awake. Little by little, Tony’s eyelids grew heavy; the last thing they saw was Steve’s hand coming to rest atop his own, reaching for Tony through the depths of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote from the Infernal Devices series by Cassandra Clare.
> 
> To clarify, the universe this fic is set in is a mixture of 616 and the MCU. Wanda is from 616, and Peter Maximoff is the Pietro in the X-Men movie universe. Wanda is implied to have escaped to this 'verse around the events of House of M. 
> 
> I don't think I'll ever write a sequel to this, but I'm considering maybe writing a Wanda one-shot at some point (but no promises lol).
> 
> Come talk to me on [tumblr](http://fanfictiongreenirises.tumblr.com) =D


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